Yes, Knight-Captain
by prosewanderer
Summary: The rivalry simmering between the Knight-Captain and Hawke blurs into something else when the two acknowledge and act on their attraction for each other.
1. Chapter 1

Things changed when the Knight-Captain arrested her sister. Cullen and Hawke had never been friends, exactly, but Hawke saved his life once and expected he'd repay her. He was always polite and formal and she treated him in kind, not wanting to draw undue attention to herself or her sister Bethany. They'd spent their childhood running from the templars in Ferelden and they were not strangers to the threat of arrest and imprisonment, but Hawke thought she and Cullen had an understanding. She would help him from time to time, and not flaunt the fact that her sister was a mage, and he'd leave Bethany alone.

She was wrong.

She'd only just returned from the expedition, dust from the Deep Roads still caked on her boots, when the Knight-Captain came to arrest Bethany. Seeing Cullen in her uncle's home—with a possessive hand on her sister's arm, as though reclaiming his personal property—was a direct violation of the imagined truce between them.

Hawke's temper flared white-hot. "You'll have to go through me," she said, moving towards him, ignoring Bethany's panicked look, not caring how ill-advised her aggression was. Her hands curled at her sides.

Cullen surprised her. Ire was what she expected, but a look of appraisal was what she got. He rose to the challenge, releasing Bethany's arm and stepping in to meet her. Maker, did he actually _want_ to fight her? She felt a surge of adrenaline and something else; she didn't over-analyze it. He wanted to get physical? Good. So did she. She wasn't afraid. He was broad and tall, but she was tall, too—and strong and agile, from years of carrying a heavy blade. She could handle him.

"No, please," Bethany insisted, putting herself between them. The pleading in her little sister's voice was like being drenched with a bucket of cold water. Her fists relaxed, opening. She could fight with Cullen, but it would only make Bethany's life harder. She was in Cullen's hands, now. He controlled her fate.

"This isn't over," Hawke told him. He didn't reply. Before, he had always looked at her in a superficial way, as though skimming the surface to see if there was anything interesting underneath, but now she had the full weight of his gaze. It was a heavy gaze indeed, but she met it unflinching.

Several weeks later, after Hawke's anger reduced to a low simmer, she confronted Cullen in the Gallows courtyard and told him if anyone laid a finger on Bethany she would hold him personally responsible.

"Your sister is safe in the Circle, Serah Hawke," he said.

"She's as well-protected as the other mages, I'm sure," she replied, the words a sneer. She was so irritated she missed the honorific. Before, he'd always called her, "Hawke."

"I suggest you continue to make yourself useful to the Order," he said. "You already know we compensate well for the trouble, but there are other benefits."

"Such as?"

"The Knight-Commander's favor." He glanced away and added, "My favor."

"For all the good that's worth."

His eyes snapped back to hers. "We declined to arrest your family for harboring an apostate, as you recall. That decision was made based on my recommendation. I reminded the Knight-Commander of how much you've helped the Order. I'd like to be able to make that recommendation again in the future. You will probably have a need for it, considering the company you keep."

He was telling the truth, she decided. And he was probably right. She was a known friend of apostates and her family's burgeoning ascent up Kirkwall's social and political latter was accompanied by increasing public scrutiny. She could no longer duck among the shadows as she once had or assume that her actions would go unnoticed. Hawke crossed her arms. "I aspire to be useful, Knight-Captain," she said. After that, if he offered her a job, she took it.

Often, Hawke arrived for payment still spattered in blood and sweat and grime, tired, irritated, and in sore need of a bath. Oddly, she couldn't shake the feeling that this was when Cullen was most attentive. His eyes seemed to linger on her. After Isabela observed this phenomenon firsthand, she suggested Hawke should get close to the Knight-Captain when he was out of armor to "work out their issues." Hawke brushed it off, retorting that she would only get close so she could knee him in the groin.

"And he knows it," Hawke told her, glancing surreptitiously in his direction. He caught her eye. She quickly turned her attention back to the sword she was considering. She hefted the pommel, testing its balance. "He wouldn't let me within an arm's reach."

"Don't be so sure," Isabela said, examining a dagger, a smile playing along her lips, and she dropped the subject.

The damage had been done, however. Hawke couldn't stop thinking about Isabela's suggestion. She kept turning it over in her mind. She couldn't deny that she'd wondered about Cullen and what he was like under all that metal and leather. There was something about a man in authority and templar armor, with all its buckles and straps and broad pauldrons, lent itself to a certain type of speculation.

Cullen was not her type, as far as she had one—Hawke preferred partners close to her height (the better to rub noses with), partners who laughed a lot and drank a lot, partners who loved to dance as much as they loved to be bedded—but she was willing to admit some level of physical attraction. Cullen was attractive on the rare occasions in which he shed his dour demeanor. He might even be handsome if he ever actually smiled. He had pretty eyes and a fine brow, especially when he was deep in thought. His aversion to shaving suggested he was not quite as straight-laced as one might assume. But he was Cullen. He was a stuffy, patronizing cad. He'd arrested her sister. He was only interested in using her to further the interests of the Order. He was a _templar_.

The next time she saw him in the courtyard she paid close attention, looking for whatever Isabela thought she'd seen. Cullen was business-like, as usual; his tone was brisk and his manner professional. When he paid her, he dropped the purse into her hand, never once trying to touch her. Clearly, Isabela had it all wrong. Hawke turned to leave, oddly disappointed, and felt a heat on the back of her neck. At once, she had the distinct impression he was watching her, drinking her in. She took a gamble.

"Like what you see, Knight-Captain?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder. His gaze lift from her backside.

"Was there any question, Serah Hawke?" he asked. His voice was subtly different: a shade lower, a tad rougher. Maker, what door had she opened? In spite of all her misgivings she was tempted to open it a little wider. Before she could he added, "I do appreciate you." Then, almost as an afterthought, "Your service has been impeccable. I know I can rely on you."

"Then why don't you offer me a real job?" she countered, turning back to him. "Any common blade can run these errands."

He considered. "I do require assistance with a more delicate matter. If you're truly interested."

Aside from the slight change in tone, he was playing it straight. She wasn't sure if this was innuendo or not. She asked, "What sort of matter?"

He walked her to a shaded alcove away from the bustle of the courtyard and she leaned against the wall. "A woman at the Blooming Rose may be selling information about her templar clients to prospective blackmailers." Hawke gave an indelicate snort, which Cullen pointedly ignored. "I need someone to proposition her and confirm if that's the case. Obviously it has to be someone I can trust."

Hawke was nonplussed by the locale. The last time she'd gone to the brothel she'd nearly been compelled to kill herself with her own dagger. This time, Bethany wouldn't be there to save her. "Perhaps you should try to cultivate a working relationship with the staff there. You need information from them often enough."

"I'd rather work with you." There was something about Cullen's manner that made her stomach flutter a bit. He wasn't coming on strong, exactly. He wasn't quite flirting. But there was definitely a frankness that hadn't been there before. A tiny voice in her mind whispered a steady stream of warnings: flirting with the Knight-Captain would only lead to trouble, any sexual interest on his part was inappropriate and should not be encouraged, a man with his rank and leverage couldn't be trusted, once she opened this door she might not be able to close it again. It was a tribute to how powerful and influential Hawke had become, and how far removed she felt from her days as an impoverished refugee sheltering an apostate sister, that she willfully ignored the voice.

"I'll do it," she said.

Cullen handed her a purse and she tucked it into her belt. "Ask for Janelle," he said. "Tell her you want information to use against the Order and offer her this. If she accepts, keep her talking. If not, report back to me outside."

"Should I change?" she asked. She was wearing fighting leathers, as was usually the case when she came to the Gallows for work.

Cullen started to glance down and evidently thought better of it. "No," he said, curtly. "That will be fine."

"What's the plan?"

"After five minutes, I'll come for you. I'll interrogate her myself. There's only one entrance. If she attempts to escape she'll have to pass me."

"You don't trust me to handle her?" Hawke had grown adept at squeezing information from reluctant sources.

"I don't want your throat cut," he said. She'd glossed over the dagger incident when she reported to him, but he'd learned about it somehow. She started to protest, but changed her mind. It was his job. He was paying. They'd do things his way.

Hawke was directed to a room on the second floor of the Blooming Rose. She knocked as she entered and a woman called, "Just a minute!" from the lavatory. She sat on the bed as she waited, thinking to herself that it was a rather nice room. The sheets were comfy and soft. She bounced on the mattress and was pleased with the effect. Very nice.

After a few minutes, she called, "Could we hurry this up?"

No answer.

Hawke cursed under her breath and got up to confirm what she already suspected: the lavatory was empty. The small north-facing window was ajar. Hawke tapped against the walls, which were solid, and concluded the woman escaped through the window.

"Where is she?" Cullen asked, startling her. The five minutes were up, apparently. Hawke leaned out the window and checked the alley below, but there was no one in sight. "Your friend let herself out," she told him. "I have no idea what tipped her off. I didn't even get a chance to talk to her."

Cullen looked over her shoulder. She caught a whiff of lyrium, spicy and metallic, as he leaned past her to get a clear view. He said, "That alley leads to Darktown." He glanced down at her and back to the window. "You could probably fit—"

"Save your breath, Knight-Captain, there's no way I'm going out that window," she said. She was distracted by him, by his smell and proximity. She'd never been alone with him in private before. She pulled back from the window, pushing against the wall, and had the uncomfortable realization that she was going to have to squeeze past him to get by.

Cullen's eyes narrowed. He was looking at the wall behind her. He leaned forward and she moved to the side, struggling to maintain a buffer of personal space in the cramped space.

"There," he said, pointing. A small hole was punched in the wall. Hawke's curiosity got the better of her. She wiggled over and peered into it. The hole provided a clear view of the bed. It was probably standard in brothels for the workers' safety. A person could stand guard in the lavatory and intervene if things got out of hand.

"So she saw me after all." Hawke frowned. "I don't understand, why…?"

Cullen laughed, startling her. She'd never heard him laugh before. She'd barely even seen him smile.

"What?" Hawke asked, irritated at him for figuring it out first and irritated with herself for being so jumpy. She turned to face him and was reminded again of how close they were.

"Serah Hawke," he said. "You're too…" He glanced away, searching for the right phrasing. "You're very…" Hawke put her hands on her hips. "Transparent," he finally decided.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"I only meant your intentions are clear."

Hawke frowned. "Is that right? You think you can read me?"

"I'm fairly confident," he said quietly.

Cullen's direct gaze and closeness were becoming difficult to ignore. Hawke felt heat rising on her face, rued it, and adopted a harsher tone to compensate. "Well, she's gone," she said. "I guess you're out of luck."

"No." He glanced out the window again. "Her escape is confirmation enough. I'll settle matters with the Madame."

"As long as you're happy," Hawke said, pushing past him to the main room. She reached for the door, but he caught her by the arm. She got the sense that he was trying to be gentle, but his grip was still a vise. Instinctively, her heart began to pound.

"One moment, Serah Hawke," he said, and he slid his hand around her waist. She started to protest, then heard the clink of the purse and realized he was retrieving the sovereigns he'd given her.

"You're not going to stick me with the tab, are you?" she asked.

"Of course not," he said. He loosened his grip on her arm, allowing her to pull away, and opened the door for her.

Hawke gave the room one last look. "Pity to waste it," she said, not quite realizing what it sounded like until the words were out. She nearly clamped her hand over her mouth. Maker, where did _that_ come from? Had she just propositioned a templar in a brothel while they were alone? She had. That was exactly what she'd done. She looked at him, hoping the implication had gone unnoticed. It hadn't.

Hawke had never appreciated what it was like to be undressed with someone's eyes until now. Sure, it had happened, but not like this. The Knight-Captain was clearly removing every article of clothing, slowly, one piece at a time, in his mind. She could almost feel cool air hitting her skin as his eyes traveled down her body, pulling away every stitch of fabric.

She almost took a step back, she was so overwhelmed by the abrupt shift in mood. She could feel herself getting wet as her body responded to—what? Nothing, he hadn't done anything! How could she be responding like this to a look? And from him, of all people? Her heart was beating so loudly she was sure he could hear it. Every nerve in her body was on edge, thrumming with anticipation. He was watching her intently now. He released the doorknob and stepped back, giving her a clear path of escape through the open door.

"Messere," he said, in a tone that made her legs slightly wobbly.

She could walk out or stay. She knew what the smart choice was. She knew that a sexual liaison with the Knight-Captain was beyond poor judgement. But in spite of everything, she felt inexorably drawn to him, like a moth to a flame—a moth that knew full well it was about to get burned. She made a split-second decision, which she later chalked up to temporary insanity. She pushed the brothel door shut and flung the other open wide.

This was new territory, but Hawke did not have time to puzzle over how to proceed. The moment the door clicked shut Cullen hauled her onto the bed and she gave a startled, breathy laugh as she bounced on the mattress. She immediately began peeling out of her leathers, but he caught her hands, forcing her still.

"Allow me, messere." He ran a gloved hand along the inside of her clothed thigh and she writhed when his fingers rolled over her crotch. He unlaced her leggings slowly, pulling one string at a time, and when that was finished he slid his thumbs under either side of the waistband. He met her eyes.

Before she could speak, he jerked, yanking her pants and smalls down to her knees, exposing her. She gasped as he unexpectedly flipped her, pulling her down over the edge of the bed until she was on her stomach, presenting herself to him with her upper body sprawled across the mattress. She could feel his eyes on her, roving over her naked backside and her spread legs and between them, and it was almost too intense, too intimate.

She turned her head to say something—something coy or stupid, whatever came out first, anything to break the tension—and he struck her on the left buttock, hard, the leather stinging against her skin. She bit back an involuntary moan, simultaneously embarrassed and titillated.

"Shut up," he said softly. He pinned her down, twining gloved fingers in her hair and forcing her against the mattress. "Do you want this, messere?" he asked.

"Maker, yes," she mumbled. She felt the cool press of metal against her back, followed by hot, hard cock gliding between her legs as he lubricated himself with her arousal. He wasn't going to take the time to undress. She braced herself for penetration, but he continued to lazily rub himself against her, making her hips buck in anticipation with each stroke. When the head of his cock began to push inside her and stopped just short, she whimpered, hating the involuntary sound. She wanted to have sex with him right here, right now, consequences be damned. She wanted to know what he felt like. She wanted to hear what he sounded like. She wanted to come.

"Do you still want this, messere?" he asked. Again: so calm and in-control.

"Yes," she said, trying to keep from panting.

"Yes, what?" he asked, pressing his cock against her again. Heat flared between her thighs and she stifled a moan.

"Yes, please," she whispered.

"Yes, please, what?" For the first time, a note of impatience. His hand tightened in her hair. "Tell me exactly what you want."

It was all she could do not to scream. "Yes, please," she whispered. "Yes, Knight-Captain, please fuck me until I co—"

He thrust into her in one stroke and she did scream. He pulled out almost completely and she squirmed, trying to push back against him. He kept a hand in her hair and held her firmly by the hip, anchoring her to the bed.

"Say it again," he told her. His voice was rough but still remarkably steady. She hated how calm he was while she was writhing on the end of his cock.

"Yes, Knight-Captain—" she moaned, and got no further because he thrust into her again. She kept saying yes, and he continued thrusting with long, hard strokes, building a steady, pounding rhythm. At some point the yeses became lost in moans, and he drove her into the mattress with a power and urgency that forced sounds from her she hadn't even known she was capable of making. The tension inside her continued to coil and build, steadily, ceaselessly, as her body tightened against him. The enchanted ring that she wore on a chain around her neck was shaken free from the inside of her armor. It dangled from her neck, swaying with each powerful thrust.

As she neared climax Cullen slowed his rhythm. He was preparing to pull out so he wouldn't come inside her. "Please," she panted, curling her fingers in the sheets. She reached back, brushing the hand at her hip, and he seized her wrist.

"Please what?" His voice was less steady now. He circled his gloved thumb along the inside of her wrist. The gesture was strangely intimate.

Hawke breathed heavily against the mattress. She wanted to feel his heat. She wanted to feel _all_ of him. "Please come inside me, Knight-Captain." He hesitated. "Please, Cullen," she begged, and that was enough. He drove his hips forward, wrenching a gasp from her, then another, then another, and suddenly she was over the edge. She cried out, almost sobbing. She heard Cullen's sharp intake of breath and felt him grow harder still, and that was the only warning he gave before he came, his weight pressing against her, the hand in her hair tightening. For a moment they were locked together, the cadence of their breathing matched. Cullen regained his composure first, loosened his grip on her hair, and slowly pulled out, making her sigh.

As the afterglow faded, Hawke realized what she must look like: a limp puddle of spent woman bent over the bed, her pants around her knees, a trickle of semen running down her inner thigh. Embarrassed, she rolled over and fumbled for her pants, hitching them up to her hips, and hastily laced the front. It took a minute; her fingers were shaking. She shot Cullen a furtive glance. He was looking out the window as he adjusted himself. Awkwardness came rushing in. She didn't know what to do. She didn't know how to make a graceful exit. When he turned she stood, still a little weak-kneed, and said, "Cullen, I—"

Cullen pulled her to him. She braced herself, unsure what was happening, and he kissed her. It was a bruising kiss, equal parts passion and force, and when he released her she drifted back down onto the bed, slightly dazed. Already, she could feel a pleasant soreness between her thighs.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked. His tone was flat, indifferent. He didn't meet her eyes.

"No," she said, falling back on the bed.

He began to stay something, stopped, and said, "Stay as long as you need."

"Yes," she said, rubbing her palm against the silk sheets. Cullen left. Hawke lay on the bed for some time, resting, thinking, trying not to think. When she left, she went to settle the tab and found, true to his word, he'd already paid it.


	2. Chapter 2

Hawke was torn between wanting to have rough, mindless sex with Cullen every five minutes and never wanting to see him again for the rest of her life. She couldn't stop thinking about him. She decided it had nothing to do with Cullen: it was the sex. Most of her time was divided between running the mines, managing the family estate, and dealing with social obligations. Being thrown onto a bed and pounded into orgasmic oblivion was a welcome change of pace. She'd never had sex like that before and it was pretty clear to Hawke she needed more of it. Lots of it. All the time.

The tiny voice in the back of her mind (likely a product of her mother's influence) told her she needed to have nice, normal relations with nice, normal men and not _this_, whatever this was, with a sexually-aggressive templar. The voice told her this was an ill-advised fling that would only complicate her life. The voice told her a one-time indiscretion could be overlooked, but if she persisted she would have to take full responsibility.

Hawke tallied up the reasons for and against seeing Cullen again. Against column: he was the Knight-Captain, he'd arrested her sister, and her mother would disown her if she ever found out. For column: she really, really liked it when he spanked her. Spanking won out, in the end.

Having committed herself to woefully foolhardy seduction, Hawke developed a plan of action. She would seduce Cullen and tell him to meet her somewhere, somewhere with a bed, and things would happen. She would worry about the details later. She had a closet full of clothing designed to ensnare men, thanks to her mother's persistent attempts to marry her off to various nobles. She didn't know Cullen's tastes, but thinking back on the occasions she'd caught him watching her, she had some ideas. She settled on a summer dress that revealed enough leg to be interesting but left most to the imagination. She rifled through her perfumes, another _hint hint_ present from her mother, and chose a blend of cedar and lavender that reminded her of Ferelden. She reminded herself that Cullen had last seen her wearing fighting leathers and a sheen of noonday sweat. If this didn't work she'd go back to leathers.

"Don't forget lunch," her mother called as she left, but Hawke was too preoccupied to notice. On the ferry, she wondered if she was getting in over her head, but decided no matter how many beds Cullen pounded her into she could handle whatever he dished out and then some. The worst thing he could do was reject her. Or maybe that was the best thing? She hadn't been thinking clearly the past few days.

She knocked on his open office door in Templar Hall and found him reading paperwork at his desk. He was in dress uniform, which she hadn't expected. She'd never seen him out of armor before. The thought made her pause at the doorway.

He glanced up and put down the paper he was reading. "Serah Hawke," he said, rising. His expression was dispassionate, as usual. She'd never guess they'd been intimate if she hadn't been there herself.

"I need to talk to you," she said.

Cullen nodded towards the door and she shut it. "What do you need?" he asked, circling the desk to meet her. There was nothing overtly suggestive about his manner, but the lines she'd rehearsed flew from her mind as she was distracted by new visual details afforded by the smart military cut of his uniform. Out of armor, he was still tall and broad, but his build was leaner than she'd assumed. He had a natural grace when he wasn't hindered by heavy plate. And his _hips…_

"I…" _Think, think_, she told herself, groping for words. She said the first thing that popped into her head, not wanting to draw out the silence. "You owe me."

"Do I?" he asked, with a fraction of a smile that made her toes curl. Oh, that smile. That smile was definitely trouble.

The conversation wasn't off to a sterling start, but she willed herself to stay the course. "I fulfilled my end of the job," she told him.

"I didn't forget. I asked our treasurer to arrange payment by the end of the week." He studied her face. "I won't be able to offer you work in the future." He'd taken steps based on the Order's fraternization rules, she assumed. She wasn't sure how she felt about that. A part of her was pleased he'd been thinking about being with her again, but another part was miffed he'd presumed so much.

"Do you really think that's necessary?" she asked, unable to keep the challenge out of her words.

"I'm confident, Serah Hawke," he said. He said it in that quiet voice, the same one he'd used when he had her pressed against the mattress, and her heart quickened. She shifted back a step and felt the edge of the desk against her legs. Had it always been like this? Had there always been this much sexual tension between them? She couldn't remember. Had he always been this intense? She definitely couldn't remember.

"What are the ground rules?" she asked, unsure how to proceed.

"You say yes. You obey. You come."

She felt faint. "That's all?" she asked, trying to keep her tone light in spite of the flutter in her stomach. Already, she felt anticipatory warmth between her legs.

"That's all," he said. He trailed his hand along her hip, his fingertips grazing, teasing. She wanted to throw herself at him, to rip that uniform off and see what lay beneath, but she forced herself to remain still, her eyes locked on his.

"Where?" she asked, wondering what she'd do with herself in the meantime. She'd probably go crazy waiting.

Cullen paused. "On this desk," he said, as if the thought had only just occurred to him.

The heat between her legs intensified. He slid his hands up her hips, running his thumbs along the line of her smalls through the dress, and she shivered. "You think it's that simple?" she asked, annoyed at the arousal steadily building inside her and the contrast she felt in his controlled hands. How was he always so calm and collected?

"Nothing about you is simple, messere," he said. He slid his hands under her thighs and hauled her up onto the desk. His fingers were warm through the thin fabric. She had a moment of panic. _What if someone came to the door? _Papers scattered. _What if some templar knocked or—worse—opened it?_ A hand parted her legs, sliding up between her thighs. Everything was suddenly happening very fast.

"Wait," she said, her heart thundering in her chest.

He stopped. His hand was still warm against her thigh. She licked her lips, trying to orient to the situation. She'd come here, she'd shut the door, and she'd allowed Cullen to get close enough to haul her onto a desk. His desk. In his office. In Templar Hall. In the Gallows.

What was she doing? Well. Being impulsive and engaging in more risky behavior, clearly.

But Maker, what was _he_ doing? Cullen didn't strike her as a risk-taker. She eyed him. He was watching her. She licked her lips again. "Is this a good idea?" she asked.

"Definitely not," Cullen said. He kept his hands on her, but there was no pressure—no squeezing, no urging. _"I'm confident,"_ he'd said. His patience was rooted in certainty. He thought he knew her. He thought he could anticipate her reactions.

That was when she felt it: the barest stroke of his thumb against her thigh. It was a gentle, circular motion, an intimate touch, much the way he'd touched her wrist before. There was no change in his expression; it was an unconscious gesture. His control was good—his hands were completely steady otherwise—but it wasn't perfect. At once, Hawke knew what she wanted. She would shake his control and break that calm, unhurried exterior. He was confident? Well, she was confident too.

"Lock the door," she said. He secured the bolt. When he returned, his hands stayed at his sides.

"Messere?" he prompted.

The rules, she realized. She stopped the encounter and it was her responsibility to start it again. "Yes," she said.

Was it her imagination or did a look of relief flicker across his face? She didn't have much time to think about it. Cullen responded immediately, parting her thighs, easily navigating under the dress. He ran his fingers over her smalls, rubbing his thumb where the fabric was already damp, and she bit back a moan.

"Undress," he said. There was no mistaking his tone: this was an order.

She unclasped the front of the dress, allowing the fabric to fall to either side of the desk. The air was cold against her skin. She shook off her sandals and shimmied out of her smalls, tugging them down her thighs to her knees. Cullen took over from there, pulling her smalls down the length of her legs until they fell to the floor. He trailed his fingers up her legs, pausing to rest lightly at her knees. He took it all in, as if he were committing her body to memory, before returning his attention to her face.

"Everything, messere," he said. She hesitated before reaching behind and unfastening her breast-band. She was suddenly shy about exposing this last part of herself, but he kept his eyes on her face and her uncertainty passed. She dropped the band to the desk, aware of her nipples hardening.

"Lean back," he said, his voice a register lower, a grade huskier. She obeyed, leaning back on her elbows, strangely titillated at being completely exposed while he was fully clothed. He dipped a finger into her, testing, watching her reaction. She closed her eyes briefly, enjoying the warmth that fanned out across her hips. He ran his thumb over her clitoris in light circles, teasing, and slid a finger inside and curled in a slow, coaxing motion. He inserted a second finger and when she lifted her hips to meet his hand he pushed her down against the desk. He inserted a third finger and her exhale was almost a moan. All the while he maintained eye contact, and there was something so intimate about the way he watched her that she felt things low in her belly constrict in response.

When he withdrew, he reached for his belt and loosened it. He took his time, leaving her untouched while he unbuttoned his trousers, sliding them down just enough to release his cock and reveal several inches of hip and thigh.

Her eyes were drawn to this rare glimpse of his body and the hard line of his hip. She was immediately compelled to touch him. She reached, but he caught her wrist.

"A little restraint, messere," he said.

Stubbornness bubbled up and she reached with her other hand. He tightened his grip in warning, but she ignored him. She closed her fingers around his cock and gave a good, solid stroke, enjoying the combination of smooth skin and hard arousal and delighting that he was already this hard. His breath caught, his hips automatically rolling to meet her, and she stroked him again. His cock twitched in her hand and she stroked once more, squeezing when she reached the head. Cullen removed his belt and seized her hands, crushing her wrists together, and she made a noise. He wound the leather belt tightly around her wrists and cinched the buckle. He jerked her hands up sharply—this time her breath caught—and looped her arms over his head. She was hugging his neck, their faces mere inches apart. He shifted his weight, forcing her to lean back and rely on him for support. He deliberately pressed the shaft of his cock against her, between her folds.

"Say it," he told her. The demand was all the more intimate when they were face-to-face and she felt a new heat creep up her neck. He moved his hips, sliding up and down in her wet heat, and she stifled a noise.

"Yes," she said, hazy with desire, but not so much that she would surrender to his demands immediately.

"All of it," he said, moving again, making her groan.

"Yes, Knight-Captain," she whispered, barely able to think. The head of his cock was teasing at her entrance, on the verge of slipping inside, and her body was clenching in anticipation.

"Beg," he said. _Beg_. He wanted her to say please, to plead and whimper, while she was looking into his eyes. She squirmed, trying to close the distance herself, unwilling to give him the satisfaction but desperately wanting him inside her. He grabbed her thighs and held her firm. The angle was such that he had total control over the level of penetration. He resisted her attempts to get closer, content to watch her struggle while he teased her with his body. How long could she hold out? Longer than him? Somehow, she doubted it.

In a fit of inspiration she lunged for his mouth, pulling herself forward on her arms, and kissed him. She caught him by surprise and took the opportunity to slide her tongue into his mouth. He groaned and leaned into the kiss, drawing her to him, pushing partway inside her. He glided those first few inches, setting her body aflame. It was an honest kiss—all passion and pure instinct, with no regard for anything but their bodies and the moment.

Cullen broke away roughly. When she began to speak and he thrust into her completely, drawing a gasp instead. He was hot and hard and buried in her to the hilt, his hips bruising against hers. It was nearly too much, a slow burn that blurred the line between pleasure and pain, but he began to rock, his fingers digging into her hips, her body adjusted and all sensation bled into a deep, low heat. She muffled her moans against his neck and wrapped her legs around him. She twisted her bound hands so she could curl her fingers in his hair, arching her body, pressing her chest to his, her body tightened around him as pressure built to a swift climax.

She would make him come first. She was determined. She kissed him under the jaw, felt his pulse jump, and did it again. She trailed her kisses along the curve of his neck and felt a surge of triumph as his lips parted, his face tilting slightly towards hers. _You like that, don't you, Knight-Captain?_ she thought, and she licked, a slow flick of tongue along his jaw. Cullen's grip tightened, drawing a whimper from her throat, before he came, crushing her against the desk. There was something about the implicit need in his final thrust, about that split-second moment where he finally surrendered all control, that made her follow. Stars danced in her eyes, every nerve in her body exploding and dissipating, leaving a lingering buzz in her fingers and toes. She went limp, allowing her legs to slide away.

For a moment, she was unable to move. She lay underneath him, acutely aware of how heavy he was, and how hard the desk was, and how her legs dangled bonelessly over the edge. She licked her lips, tried to think, failed, and surrendered to the post-coital haze. He reached back, fumbling with the belt. He freed her wrists before pulling out.

"Did I hurt you?" he asked.

She made an indecipherable noise and shook her head. He massaged feeling back into each of her wrists in a methodical, business-like way. She closed her eyes, resting, allowing her body return from its heightened state. He pressed something into her hand. Her smalls. She allowed them to fall onto the desk.

She heard him fastening his trousers and smoothing his clothes. She felt blindly for her dress and shrugged into it. When she finished dressing she climbed down from the desk slowly, still dazed. She found her smalls and pulled them on, hardly caring that the cloth was still damp, and stepped into her sandals. She rubbed her wrists together, enjoying the lingering sting. He was looking out the window.

"Was there anything else, Serah Hawke?" he asked.

"No," she said. She wasn't sure what to make of his reaction, but her body was still humming pleasantly and she didn't want to spoil the feeling. She didn't dwell on it. "Until next time?" she asked. He nodded.

Her hand was on the door latch when he said, "You're forgetting something."

She turned back. She could only think of one thing that was missing: a goodbye kiss. If he was challenging her to take the initiative, she would gladly accept. He didn't react when she crossed to him or when she leaned up and pressed her mouth to his—chastely this time, her lips only slightly parted. He closed his eyes, but did not reciprocate.

She stepped back, searching, but his expression was unchanged. "On the desk," he said quietly.

Abruptly, she realized she'd left her breast-band. She turned before he could see her expression and hastily fumbled with her dress, sliding the band on and fastening it before smoothing her clothes back in place. When she glanced at him, he had turned his back while she was changing and was looking out the window again. She wanted to interpret this in some chivalric way, but accepted he was likely too polite to ask her to leave outright.

She left quietly, shutting the door behind her. She was a nervous about walking past the posted guards after having such an amorous encounter with their captain, but the templars gave her the usual bored nods and she detected no change in their mood. She crossed the courtyard, still heady with afterglow, and boarded the ferry.

Halfway across the bay, she was forced to admit that being with Cullen might be a little more complicated than she'd initially thought. Now that the intensity of the moment was wearing off, she could hear the little voice reminding her that she'd had sex with the man who arrested her sister_again_, this time in the very place where her sister was imprisoned. Hawke resented the accompanying prickle of guilt and tried to smother it. She and Cullen had an admittedly intense physical connection, but it was just sex, nothing more. There was no danger of becoming emotionally entangled with a person like him. He was a templar. Templars were wed to their duty. Templars didn't care about relationships. She and Cullen could have their fun and one day it would be over and her mother and Bethany would be none the wiser, just as it had been with Isabela and the guardsman and the dalliances before. After all the responsibilities heaped upon her with the estate and her mother's constant matchmaking, didn't she deserve the chance to blow off a little steam? To have a little fun? To enjoy herself?

She did, Hawke decided, and she left it at that.

A man Hawke didn't recognize intercepted her on the way to the manor. She assumed he needed directions. He had a seaman's tan that seemed out of place in Hightown. But when her eyes registered the rest—finely tailored clothes, handsome signet ring, clever green eyes with a fringe of beautiful, dark lashes—and she realized he was a noble.

"Marian Hawke?" he asked. "I believe we're lunching today."

Abruptly, she remembered. Her mother's arranged meetings with suitors had become so commonplace she'd forgotten. He was the shipping magnate's son. They were supposed to meet today. She would never hear the end of it.

"Yes," she said, embarrassed at having forgotten and knowing no graceful way to cover for the mistake.

"Vincent Altrada," he said, offering his hand. "Our parents arrange so many of these meetings it's easy to forget. I overheard your mother sending a manservant to find you. I took the liberty of being late myself."

She accepted his hand, grateful. "Thank you, Messere Altrada." His grip was firm but warm.

"I prefer Vincent. Serah Altrada, if you must." He bent to brush his lips across her knuckles. He paused before he released her hand, a mischievous smile playing across his face. "You've had a busy morning, Serah Hawke," he observed, in a tone that left little doubt as to what sort of business he referred. There was no condemnation in his voice, only playfulness, and any embarrassment she might have felt evaporated.

"Is it so obvious?" she asked, with a laugh. She was still feeling tingly and light from the encounter. She laughed easily after sex.

"No," he demurred, offering his arm. "Not so obvious."

They entered the estate arm-in-arm and Hawke enjoyed the effect this had on her mother, whose expression went from icy to relieved to calculating in a matter of seconds.

"Forgive me, Lady Amell," Vincent said. "I encountered your daughter on my way and was charmed. We lost track of the time."

"Oh, you've met! That's wonderful." Leandra gestured for them to sit. The table had already been set with the usual midday wine and lunch plates.

"I love what you've done with your estate," Vincent said, looking around. "I understand you had to reclaim it from some rather unsavory tenants."

"Pirates," Hawke offered. "Slavers, mostly."

"Surely Messere Altrada doesn't want to hear about those horrible people," Leandra said, offering him wine.

"I must confess, I do enjoy a good pirate story," Vincent told her, accepting the glass. "I've had a few run-ins myself."

It turned out Vincent had spent several years as captain of the Fettered Row, his father's flagship, before returning to Kirkwall to help manage the family business dockside. Hawke eagerly pumped him for details. She'd always found the idea of a life at sea romantic. "I'm more of an administrator than a sailor," he told her, somewhat apologetically. "My second mate and the crew kept her safe, I was just along for the trip." He'd been given oversight of a trade route to Antiva City that followed the coastline to Rialto Bay past the Rivaini peninsula and had dealt with pirates extensively as a negotiator.

"Negotiating with pirates," Hawke said. "That's quite a task."

"I'm not a fighter," he said. "I'm appropriately conflict-averse, and pirates are bought easily enough."

"You may encourage more piracy by making deals with them," Hawke said. "How can you trust them?"

"I'm sure Messere Altrada knows what he's doing, Marian," Leandra said, seeing possible insult on the horizon and trying to steer the conversation away.

Vincent smiled, unoffended. "My father had similar concerns. We only negotiate with crews that have proven to be intelligent and reasonable. You're right to question their trustworthiness, but I've found they respond remarkably well to written contracts. We openly work with the more respectable crews and they keep the riffraff away from our ships in their own self-interest. Some call it a protection racket, but we prefer to think of it as insurance."

"Risky," Hawke said, intrigued. She put a high premium on such gambles.

"We can't all be self-sufficient warriors, I'm afraid," Vincent said.

"I meant no offense. It's a calculated risk, of course."

"None taken. Our methods are not traditional, which is why we've been able to corner the market in the Free Marches. If our competitors catch on we will have to come up with new ideas."

Leandra was getting fidgety and Vincent noticed. He put down his glass. "Lady Amell, that dress is stunning. Would you mind sharing your tailor? My mother's birthday is around the corner."

Hawke watched, fascinated, as Vincent worked her mother over. It hadn't taken him long to figure out how to handle Leandra. In fact, if he wasn't careful, her mother might start trying to woo him. The thought made Hawke smile, but when her amusement passed she found herself taking notes. Vincent definitely had a knack for dealing with people. She could learn a thing or two.

The remainder of lunch passed quickly. The conversation was lively and Vincent had a natural charm and grace that both women responded to. When Hawke saw him to the door, he took her hand at the threshold. "My father will be hosting a party to celebrate the naming of his newest ship."

Hawke had already heard about it at length from her mother. She nodded. "Yes, I believe your mother invited us."

"I hope you don't forget this time," he said.

"You could give me a friendly reminder."

"I'd enjoy an opportunity. Perhaps in private, sometime soon?"

"Moving a little fast, are we?" she asked, pleased.

"I have the impression I shouldn't dally," he said, with a smile. She thought he was going to kiss her cheek, which was customary after a first meeting, and was pleasantly surprised when he kissed her on the lips. It was everything a first kiss should be—soft, sweet, warm, and at the end, just a hint of tongue for her to remember him by. "I find myself looking forward to the reminder," he murmured in her ear. "I'll write." After he left, she returned to the parlor and found her mother waiting, a knowing smile on her face.

"Where did you find him?" Hawke blurted, and her mother laughed. "He's—he's so—" Hawke collected herself. "The others were terrible," she said sternly, lest either of them forget how many of these lunches she'd suffered through.

"They weren't terrible, you simply didn't give them a chance." Leandra brushed a lock of hair from her daughter's face. "When I met him, I knew you would get along. I know you better than you realize. I want you to be happy."

"You want me to marry into a good family."

"I want you to have a good life and be safe and cared for. A good match is an important part of that. Think of what you can accomplish when our house is fully restored. You'll have security, you'll be free to pursue politics, business… whatever calling you choose." Leandra brushed at the wrinkles in Hawke's skirt. "Perhaps even have children of your own," she added.

Hawke felt a twinge of discomfort. Her mother wanted her to stop taking risky jobs and living by the sword so she could find a proper calling and have a family. Her mother was afraid that one day she would leave, blade in hand, and never return. Her mother also wanted grandchildren, and now that Bethany was in the Circle, Hawke was the only one left to provide them.

While it was true her mother wanted her to be happy, it was also true she wanted to rebuild the family's status so she could be the Lady Amell of times past. Hawke felt selfish for not being more receptive to her mother's ideas, especially when Leandra had worked so hard to establish a place for them in Kirkwall, but she resented the fact that it all seemed to serve a greater purpose for her mother than herself. She doubted the life her mother wanted for her, well-intentioned though it was, would make her truly happy.

"Where did you go this morning?" Leandra asked, taking a second look at her dress. "How did you get so disheveled?"

"An errand for Aveline," she said. "It was crowded on the ferry."

Leandra's gaze narrowed and Hawke wondered if she had a sign somewhere on her body announcing she'd had desk sex with a templar. When Leandra's eyes lifted to her face, Hawke had trouble reading the expression there.

"Marian," her mother said. "You're not a girl anymore. I'll be frank with you. This restlessness concerns me. I'm afraid that if it continues you will run out of options. If you're interested in Vincent, don't play hard to get. Let him know you're serious, _show_ him you're serious, and don't dawdle with other men."

"Mother," Hawke said, a little surprised. "I just met him."

"All I ask is that you follow your instincts. If you like him, if you feel like you could have a future with him, make a point of getting to know him. His business often takes him abroad; he may not be in Kirkwall for long. He's a lovely young man. I would hate for you to miss an opportunity."

"I will," Hawke said. And why not? She liked Vincent and it would make her mother happy. He was interesting and intelligent and a good kisser. At the very least, they could enjoy each other's company.

That night, Hawke's dreams were not of soft kisses and balls and dancing gentry, but of leather belts and bound wrists. When she woke she could only recall the sensation of being draped in warm, heavy arousal. In the coming days she frequently rifled through her letters, eager for personal correspondence. She thought she was looking for the Altrada house seal. It did not occur to her that she craved wax embossed with the stamp of the Order.


	3. Chapter 3

When Vincent's letter arrived Hawke laughed aloud as she read it, earning a curious look from Bodahn, who was preparing a shopping list for her mother's next luncheon.

_My Dearest Marian,_

_ You strike me as the adventurous type. I'm taking a sloop out on the water this afternoon and would be honored to show you the ropes. I may have some affection to show you as well, but I make no promises; my friendship is strictly contingent on your seaworthiness._

_ Sincerely yours,_

_V_

Hawke bounced up from her desk, pleased to have a distraction that aligned with her mother's agenda. "Bodahn, if my mother asks, will you please tell her I'm wooing eligible bachelors for the security of the family legacy, per her instructions?"

"It would be my pleasure, messere," Bodahn said, with a smile. He sympathized with the constant tug-of-war between Hawke and her mother over her responsibilities as the only marriageable daughter of an old noble house.

Hawke found Vincent at the docks with brandy on his breath and a sloop rigged and waiting. He was wind-tousled and open-shirted and seemed comfortable in the hot afternoon sun. Hawke noticed the name, "Marcella," painted elegantly on the sloop's side.

"An old sweetheart?" Hawke asked.

"My brother's dear first wife," Vincent said, sighing dramatically. "Dear, sweet Marcella."

"Fond of her, are you?"

"I thought I'd never encounter more delightful company. I now stand corrected." Hawke rolled her eyes before she realized what she was doing and Vincent laughed. "My dear, you must give me a chance to warm up. I haven't attempted to woo a woman in over an hour."

"I don't want you to break a sweat," she said, secretly delighted. "Flattery will get you nowhere."

"Clearly you haven't been exposed to the right kind of flattery. I'll refine my techniques."

They departed shortly. Vincent showed her how to jibe, tack, and steer, and she caught on quickly. Hawke enjoyed working with her hands, which were strong and dexterous from years of swordplay. "You catch on quickly," Vincent observed, noticing the flex of her bicep when she pulled in the line. "You have a good grip."

"It's easy enough," she replied, then paused to give him a suspicious look.

Vincent smiled. "Still not the right kind?" he asked, teasing.

"Not yet, Serah Altrada," she said, turning her face to hide the blush that threatened.

When Vincent learned about her expedition to the Deep Roads, he peppered her with questions, which she loved, because she never got tired of bragging about killing darkspawn. The expedition had been harrowing and unpleasant at the time, but now that it was over she found herself reminiscing fondly. She'd probably never go on another adventure like it. The future seemed to hold nothing but high society, family obligations, and business headaches.

When the sun began to set and the air cooled Vincent revealed a stowaway in the cabin: an 8:75 Versallian. If Hawke had acquired anything from rubbing elbows with Hightown gentry, it was a nose for good wine. He poured her glass and reached across to put it in her right hand, taking advantage of the angle to kiss her. He tasted like brandy.

"You like to sail?" he asked.

"Mmm, I really like to sail," she said, returning the kiss with one of her own.

"Mmm, I really like you," he said. He paused. "I genuinely do," he said, seeming shocked by the admission.

"Well, don't sound so surprised about it," Hawke said, with a laugh. She put her nose in the glass, enjoying the bouquet.

He propped himself up on an elbow, watching her. "I have an idea."

"Does it involve more kissing?"

"What kind of person do you take me for?" he asked. Hawke giggled into her glass, still enjoying the aroma. Vincent took a drink and lowered his glass, his expression thoughtful. "We have mutual interests and goals. We value our independence and the company of our romantic friends. We want our parents to be happy. Within reason, obviously. Making them completely happy would destroy our lives." He took another drink. "I propose an alliance rather than a traditional courtship."

Hawke did not hide her intrigue. "The terms?"

"We'll attend to each other's horrible events and family obligations—all of them, so don't try to get out of afternoon tea with my great aunt—and cover for each other as needed. You'll have a man on your arm to calm your dear mother's nerves. I'll have a woman at my side to supplement my dear parents' daydreams about stables of grandchildren. We'll suffer the whims of Hightown together, dropping enough crumbs about marriage prospects to keep everyone happy."

"And our aforementioned friends?"

"We'll continue to enjoy their company. No questions asked, naturally."

"Courtship can't last forever."

Vincent rolled his glass between thumb and forefinger, observing the color of the wine in the fading light. "Are you truly interested in marriage, Marian?"

Hawke was not accustomed to the subject of marriage being broached so early or candidly. She usually avoided such discussions as long as possible, but she genuinely liked Vincent and the subject seemed less intimidating when he brought it up. "I should be completely honest with you," she said, putting down her glass.

"Oh, dear," Vincent said. "I knew I should have brought the 7:34 Agrisio."

Hawke laughed. "Now you're trying to lure me in with your cellar."

"Hm. I may have to modify my tactics where you're concerned. The Agrisio is yours, if you'll answer my question."

Hawke took a deep breath. "The truth is I don't care about marriage. I never have. I may never be interested in it." Normally Hawke reserved this bit of information until a suitor became too persistent (or too dangerously close to her mother's heart) and used it to end the courtship. She expected some combination of the reactions she'd observed in past conversations—the frown, the hurt look, the insistent protest, the angry protest, the absurdly self-important hand-wringing. Vincent only nodded, unsurprised and unconcerned.

"How do you define marriage?" he asked.

Hawke took pause. She hadn't thought of it much, outside the fact that she didn't want anything to do with it. "Well, it's a huge emotional commitment…"

"That, my dear, is the problem." He took another drink. "You're looking at it in romantic terms. A marriage is a partnership. I prefer to think of it as more of a business arrangement. You're partners with… Hubert Bartiere, is it?"

Hawke nodded, surprised that he'd already taken the time to learn about her affairs. Hubert handled the logistical and accounting aspects of the mines and Hawke conducted on-site inspections and dealt with any problems requiring physical (and violent) solutions. The arrangement worked well for them.

"The relationship with your partner is not so different. You rely on one another and you're legally bound to each other's interests," Vincent said. "At least, that's my perspective on it. I intend to get married but I'm not looking for a romantic union. I want a partner and a friend, someone I can foresee being with for the rest of my life. If romance is a part of that, all the better. But it isn't strictly necessary." He took a drink. "An alliance gives us the opportunity to know each other and learn if we're truly compatible without pressure about intimacy."

Hawke took her glass, swirling the wine and watching it ebb. She had never spoken this frankly with a suitor about marriage before. She always avoided the issue, hedging and weaving with increasing desperation until the matter was forced, after which she would derail the relationship so thoroughly and profoundly it could never be recovered.

Hawke was no fool. She knew she was widely regarded as feckless and unreliable. If Vincent knew about Hubert, he also knew about her reputation for smashing courtships into rubble. "You know my reputation," she said. "If you're interested in marriage, you're wasting your time."

"I want to get to know you. I don't consider that a waste of time," he said. "You're a true businesswoman, I can see that. When men proposed to you before, they never gave you the right terms."

Hawke found herself agreeing when he put it that way. "We can't court indefinitely."

"That's true. We'll reach a point where we need to make a decision. If so, I hope we can both consider the prospect of a more formal alliance. If not, we go our separate ways, no hard feelings. In the meantime a multitude of tiresome luncheons with strangers have been handily avoided—a prospect well worth the trouble, I think."

"What's the catch?" she asked finally.

"You wound me, my dear."

"I refuse to believe that a man who negotiates with pirates for a living wouldn't sneak some fine print in there somewhere."

He considered. "I am a heart-breaker, a cavorter, and a lush. Consider yourself warned."

"Noted," Hawke said. "I accept your terms, then. Contingent on the quality of your cellar, of course."

"A women after my own heart," he said. "A good sign. To a happy courtship, then."

They clinked glasses and drank.

Hawke wasn't sure how to categorize her relationship with Cullen, but she assumed it wasn't exclusive. She wasn't even sure she could call it a relationship. But she knew she had to tell him about Vincent. She didn't want him to learn about it second-hand. In the past, such discoveries had gone badly for everyone.

When Hawke considered how to address the subject she realized she didn't know much about Cullen, even though they'd been acquainted for years. Their history was remarkably dearth of conversation. There was a time when she'd routinely gone to the Gallows courtyard to ask after Bethany, but his answer was always the same—a clipped, "Fine," with little elaboration. Eventually, she'd stopped asking, relying instead on her sister's letter, and she'd only ever spoken to him about work after that.

Hawke knew Cullen lived in the officer barracks at the Gallows, but she had no idea where he spent his free time or who his friends were or what his hobbies might be. She had never seen him outside the Gallows unless he was attending the Order's business. If she wanted to find him, the Gallows was the only place she knew to look.

Telling Cullen she'd arranged a fake courtship with another man to keep her mother off her back seemed like an awkward first real conversation, so Hawke took her time, waiting until she had business with the Solivitus and the other merchants that kept shop in the courtyard . She arrived in the early evening, when most of the crowds were gone, and conducted her business before seeking out the Knight-Captain.

She found Cullen practicing swordplay with another templar at the edge of one of the training yards. Templars weren't known for their elegance, primarily because of the cumbersome plate and battle skirts they wore, but Cullen's movements were distinctly graceful out of armor. He had an easy stance and a precise strike that came from years of dedication. Hawke found his form remarkable considering his size.

The two templars traded a few blows and the other propped her practice sword on her shoulder in an exaggerated way. She said something, and Cullen laughed and lowered his own sword. Hawke observed the exchange and was fascinated by the window it provided. She had never seen Cullen interact so familiarly with someone before. The other templar said something else and Cullen rolled his shoulder, a sort-of shrug, and took the sword she offered. She walked past him, patting him on the back as she passed, and Hawke did not miss the way her hand lingered.

"See you at the chant," the woman called over her shoulder, giving Hawke a friendly nod as she passed. Hawke returned it, trying to imagine Cullen in a pew at the Chantry and feeling appropriately dirty at the inappropriate fantasies that surfaced. She decided to keep the idea for a rainy day and say a prayer or two for absolution after.

Cullen saw her approach and waited, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. He was wearing loose training clothes that allowed a good range of movement. He was sweaty and his shirt clung to his chest, giving a much clearer picture of the build his dress uniform had only hinted at.

"Serah Hawke," he said. He seemed comfortable, almost relaxed, and pleased to see her. She liked the change.

"Knight-Captain," she said, dragging her eyes to his face. "Don't templars ever get time off?"

"I'm off duty today."

Hawke crossed her arms. "Don't you ever do anything for fun?"

"Serah Hawke, you are well aware of what I do for fun." There it was, that shadow of a smile. She was growing fond of it.

"Have a drink with me," Hawke said, on a whim.

"Perhaps another time. I should leave for the chant soon."

"I need to talk to you," she said. There was no mistake—he was definitely smiling now, no doubt recalling that the last time she'd come to him under similar pretenses they'd done little actual talking. "With words this time, Knight-Captain," she said.

Cullen nodded towards a terraced alcove tucked along the side of the yard and she walked with him.

"Surely you don't spend all your time in the Gallows," she said.

"My work takes me to the Keep often enough." The alcove contained a sword rack and a bench. It was terraced with leafy vines, which provided shade and privacy. He gestured to the bench, but she declined to sit.

"What do you do for leisure?" she asked.

"I'm afraid I'm not very good at small talk, Serah Hawke," he said, stacking the practice blades on the rack. "You had something you needed?"

A breeze rustled the leaves and she caught a hint of lyrium—that excellent mix of spice and metal. "I have a suitor," she said, leaning against the far wall to watch him, enjoying the cool air and the view.

"I would be surprised if you didn't," he said. He was remarkably detached about it.

"I assumed our arrangement wasn't exclusive, but I wanted to let you know there was someone else."

"Do as you like."

"I intend to," she replied, more curtly than she'd meant to. She pushed off the wall, intending to leave it at that.

"Was that all you needed?" he asked.

In hindsight, maybe it had been stupid to bring it up. Clearly Cullen assumed she was seeing other people; from the look of things, he was probably doing the same. "I wanted to be honest about my situation. As a courtesy." She tried not to sound defensive. Was it really courteous, tracking him down at the Gallows to tell him she was seeing other men? Probably not. "I didn't know where else to find you," she confessed. "Maybe you'd prefer it if I didn't come for you here."

"I always want you to come for me, Serah Hawke," he said, drawing close, and her stomach fluttered a bit. "I did want to ask you something." The flutter intensified. He reached for the laces at the front of her leggings and slowly pulled the first free. She could feel the steady tug of the lace sliding through the grommets. "I enjoy your company very much." He pulled the second lace free and slid his fingers between the remaining laces, loosening them, revealing the band of her smalls. "But agreeing to a time and place beforehand might be more prudent." He ran his thumbs along her hips and pushed her firmly back against the wall. "Somewhere away from here," he added, more quietly.

He meant a room, of course, and all the things that came with it: privacy, a bed, convenience, time. She thought about their first time at the Blooming Rose and the exquisite feel of silk sheets against her cheek. Yes, a room would be nice. "Knight-Captain, are you asking me on a date?"

He glanced at her and she bit her lip. He inched her leggings down her hips. "May I, messere?" he asked softly.

She had to admire how quickly he got to the essentials. "Yes," she said, expecting him to pull down her smalls and touch her.

Instead, he went to his knees.

She shut her eyes when his breath warmed her skin. She forgot the rough stone against her backside as he licked her through her smalls, his tongue probing insistently. She clung to the wall, her fingers digging between the bricks, leveraging her heels so she could part her legs and give him better access. He pushed her smalls to one side and she felt the coolness of the breeze for a fleeting moment before it was replaced with the heat of his mouth. He parted her with his tongue, his stubble scratching the delicate skin of her inner thigh, and she swallowed a moan—they were hidden from sight, but not from hearing, and it would not do to be discovered with the Knight-Captain's face buried between her legs.

Cullen had apparently decided to see if he could make her scream and set about it by devouring her in earnest. He did not hide his enthusiasm and she barely smothered hers. When he shifted his face, focusing his attention directly on her clitoris, she grabbed him by the hair.

"Oh, _Cullen_," she breathed.

She thought she felt him smile against her, but she couldn't be sure because he ran the flat of his tongue against her, then delved inside her, and she lost all coherent thought. She quivered, teetering on the brink as he lapped and sucked and teased, until the press of his tongue against her clitoris sent her over the edge. His hands were firm on her hips, holding her against the wall until the wave passed.

He wiped his face on his shirt as he stood. She reached for his pants, eager and fumbling, hungry to return his ministrations in kind. He caught her hands and pulled her fully erect, scraping her back against the bricks, and she made a noise of protest.

"You promised me words, messere" he murmured, keeping his voice low as he tugged her smalls out of the way. He lifted her, supporting her weight with his arms under her thighs, and pushed her back firmly against the wall, pinning her neatly with his body. She wrapped her arms around his neck, knowing from the way he adjusted his balance that he was unbuttoning his pants and working them down.

He leaned close and spoke in her ear when he said, "We'll start with yes and please."

"Surely you can think of better words than that," she said, unable to resist.

He shifted her weight, freeing his right hand, and struck her hard on the backside. The force jolted her against the wall, shaking out a gasp, and the sting of impact lingered. Ah, discipline. She was keen to incite further such measures, and when she considered how best to goad him, an elegant solution presented itself.

"How about, 'My cunt is hot and ready for you?'" she whispered in his ear. She felt his hands tighten on her thighs when she said the word, "cunt." Encouraged, she kept going. "How about, 'I'm dripping wet for you—"

He spanked her again, in the same place. She grunted, her breath hitching.

"—Aching for your hard cock—"

He spanked her again. Her backside throbbed warmly.

"—Thrusting again and again until you fill me with your release—"

He spanked her again. She was having a hard time maintaining a coherent line of thought.

"—Until it runs down my thighs—"

And again. She shuddered, trying to marshal her wits, enjoying the deep ache in her behind.

"I'll gag you, messere," he warned, his voice even.

"Promise?" she asked, and was rewarded with a open-handed strike to her backside that made her moan outright. "Please gag me," she breathed. "Put your cock in my mouth. I want to taste you. I want to swallow your seed," she said, almost delirious.

"Shut up," he said, with a hint of unsteadiness, and he kissed her roughly on the neck. His kisses were hot and controlled as he worked his way down the column of her throat, offering the barest flick of tongue and scrape of teeth and scratch of stubble. Her moans channeled the spirit of the words he wanted, _oh, yes, please_, and he responded with increasing intensity, trying to overwhelm her, trying to make her say it.

When he reached the hollow of her neck, the press of his lips seemed different somehow. Perhaps it was her own imagining, a transference of deep inner desires she hadn't yet begun to acknowledge, but whatever it was, it rallied every nerve. She whimpered and submitted, whispering all the things he demanded to hear, feeling him grow harder against her with each word. "Yes, please, Knight-Captain, please," she said, unabashedly begging, stroking the hair at the back of his neck.

He leaned in close enough to kiss, his eyes on hers, his lips slightly parted, and eased his cock into her, hitching her body higher and scraping her back against the wall. She arched and tightened her legs around him as he thrust with a willful, steady deliberation. Each time she felt the friction of brick against skin, and the resulting slow burn spread to her core, stoking the fire that smoldered there.

Suddenly, she heard voices. Someone was walking past the alcove. She looked toward the sound and Cullen clamped a hand over her mouth, turning her face back to him. She expected him to stop and wait, but he kept thrusting at that same slow, interminable pace, his lips still parted, his eyes on hers. Her lashes fluttered, her moan muffled against his hand. The voices grew closer. Cullen's breathing was heavy but controlled. He stroked her chin, watching her reach the brink. When the voices were on the other side of the terrace, mere feet away, Hawke came, her body clenching hard and fast around his cock, her breath stuttering under his palm, her fingers curling tightly in his hair.

Cullen ground her against the wall, burying his face in her neck, and she felt the tell-tale jerk of his hips and the answering lance of heat. She was humming, her whole body was singing and alive, every nerve at attention. She felt him swallow, heard him sigh. The weight of his body lessened as he slowed to a stop and pulled out. The voices faded, but she didn't notice that—only his hands, his body tangled with hers, his breath against her neck.

When he lowered her to the ground she hardly noticed the rasp of the bricks. She was breathing heavily, her heart a war drum, and she willed calm. She wanted to collapse into his arms and stay there indefinitely.

"You'll be late for the chant," she said. She thought of Cullen in a pew again and giggled.

"There will be another chant," he said, trying not to smile. He steadied her, holding her arm until she was balanced. He pulled up and laced her leggings and smoothed her shirt before attending to his own clothes. He stepped back, and with the physical withdrawal she sensed an emotional one, true to pattern. This was the part where she put herself back together while he made an escape. She tested her legs, found they worked, and moved away from the wall.

His eyes fell to her lower back. "I hurt you," he said. It wasn't a question this time.

"No," she said, savoring the lingering sting and the soreness in her backside as she stretched. Hurt was something undesirable and unwanted. This had been extremely desirable and very much wanted. "Maybe next time," she added, partly joking.

"I'll write after I make arrangements," he said. He was back to business, as usual, but she didn't mind. She was already looking forward to the privacy of a room and the luxury of time, of having him all to herself.

"Somewhere discrete, I hope," she said.

"Of course." He looked away, making a last superficial attempt to straighten his clothes, before leaning in.

"You don't have to," she said. He ignored her. The kiss was brief, but surprisingly soft. She tasted herself and closed her eyes.

When she opened them, he was walking back onto the training field. She plopped down onto the bench, resting. This time, she didn't even make it to the ferry before she heard the little voice in her ear, but she banished it more easily this time. The Gallows was a looming titan of stone and chains; it was only natural one would feel uncomfortable near its walls. Once they had a place of their own she could relax and enjoy him and not worry so much about these things.


	4. Chapter 4

Between fights with Carta smugglers, visits to her mines, and sundry jobs that required her sword or wits or both, Hawke was preoccupied. Whether she was counting sovereigns, sharpening blades, or navigating her mother's mind-numbing brunches, her mind often drifted to the Knight-Captain and his promised letter. She dismissed her daydreams out of hand, deciding that she was merely bored and craved excitement. When she experienced heart palpitations, which neatly coincided with the arrival of the letter in question, she blamed the Hanged Man's house ale and dismissed those as well.

This was not without precedent. Hawke always locked unexamined feelings away in little boxes until the contents were violently forced out at inopportune moments. She had a mighty lack of introspection. Obvious things about Hawke were never so obvious to her.

She examined Cullen's letter in great detail. It was neat, short, and discrete on heavy stock with a thin stroke. If intercepted, it would not disclose the nature of their relationship. There were no smudges or spots of ink. The lines were straight. He did not dot his I's, which seemed at odds with his fastidious nature. He'd arranged for a room at a small coastal inn set apart from the bustle of the docks. She knew the area; it was quiet and picturesque.

Hawke donned a casual frock and escaped the heat and Hightown without drawing attention. The walk was a pleasant one, thanks to a nice coastal breeze, and she made good time. She was pleased to find the room had two spectacular views: the ocean and Cullen leaning on the balcony railing watching the ocean. He had a striking profile.

"Cullen," she said.

"Serah Hawke," he replied, stepping inside to greet her. He'd dressed casually. His clothes were well-tailored but plain, in a distinctly Ferelden style far removed from the bold colors of his uniform. Nevertheless, the Order dogged his shadow. He had the bearing of a soldier, even now.

"When are you going to start calling me Marian?" she asked.

"Don't be absurd." The serious way he said it, with the slightest look of affront, made her laugh.

Hawke was not a shy woman, but she felt a little self-conscious about rendezvousing with Cullen at a hotel to have sex. He intuited her discomfort and waited for her make the first move. She took her time. She stepped out of her sandals, nudging them under the bed. She walked around the room, familiarizing herself with the modest-yet-comfortable surroundings. She admired the ocean, observing aloud how beautiful it was.

"Always," he said, but he was looking at her, not the sea. She decided to claim the compliment.

"You like the shore?" she asked, going to the balcony to look out over the beach.

"Yes."

"You swim, or…?"

"I prefer dry ground. I go there to meditate."

"A blade once told me I should practice meditation. He said I was too emotional for a warrior and needed to channel my energy. He thought I was a liability."

"I find meditation useful, but passion also has its strengths."

She walked back into the room. "Could you show me sometime?" she asked, curious. She'd tried to clear her mind and focus as a practice exercise, but it never went well. She couldn't stop the thoughts that swam to the surface of her mind or the emotions that unfurled around her heart. Hawke was restless, spinning, always in motion.

"If you wish." He glanced out the window. "You're fine as you are."

She laughed. "You mean brash and unprofessional?"

"Passionate," he corrected softly. The way he enunciated the word stirred her desire. She went to him.

"I want to get to know you better," she said, running her fingers along the edge of his belt, giving the buckle a tug. She gave him a gentle push onto the sofa near the window.

"I want to see you," he replied. She pulled the dress straps down her shoulders, freeing her breasts, pushing the fabric past the swell of her hips. The frock slid down her body, pooling at her feet. His gaze never left her face. He motioned for her to come closer. When she did, he trailed his hand lightly down the outside of her leg, resting at her knee.

Hawke knelt between his legs, running her hands up his body, enjoying how solid he felt under her palms. She unbuckled his belt without resistance, but when she dropped her hands to his trousers he intervened, catching her hands and pressing them against the sofa cushion on either side. She'd anticipated this and sought a compromise. She leaned forward and brushed her mouth against him through his trousers. When he didn't resist, she lifted her eyes to his as she caught the topmost lace between her teeth. His eyes gathered a bit of smolder. She undid his laces with slow, tugging bites, watching as his expression shifted from controlled to not-so-controlled. When she finally had access to him, she imparted a light kiss, accenting it with a hint of tongue. His eyes closed briefly at the contact.

Eager as she was to taste and touch, she instinctively knew it should go no further without permission. "May I?" she asked.

He nodded once. When she didn't move, he said, "Yes."

She took him in her mouth, sliding her tongue along the underside of his shaft, and felt his hands tighten on hers. She kept her ministrations gentle at first, kissing and licking and caressing until he hardened in her mouth. She took him deeply, humming her appreciation, and his breathing quickened. His mask slipped away. When he lifted his hips to meet her and she tasted a faintly metallic tang she knew he was close. She wanted him to climax in her mouth, she wanted to swallow, but when he slid a hand into her hair, urging her back, she promptly pulled away.

"Come here," he murmured. She rose, leaning in, and he hooked her smalls under his thumbs on either side, running his hands down her legs as he tugged the fabric down. She stepped out of them and he guided her onto the sofa to straddle him. He moved his hands up her thighs, settling on the curve of her hips. She pressed against him so he could feel how wet she was and hovered, waiting.

He slid his right hand down, running his fingers through her curls before sliding two inside her. She made a sound. He curled his fingers and she made another.

"Are you ready, messere?" he asked, reaching to guide his cock inside her.

She answered by sinking down gradually, allowing herself to adjust to his body. Once he was sheathed inside her she settled into a slow rhythm. Already, he'd put his mask back on. Hawke wanted the mask off and she had a few ideas about how to remove it. Without warning, she lifted up and almost broke away. The mask slipped and he grabbed her hips, pulling her firmly down onto his lap and holding her there. A flush rose on her cheeks. "Worried I might get away?" she asked. She couldn't resist teasing.

"I have ways of keeping you close."

"Oh?" she asked, injecting a bit of challenge in it. He shifted, rolling his hips up. The change in angle drew a different type of gasp from her this time. He felt longer or harder or both, and she was more sensitive to the thrust, more— "Oh," she said, pushing down against him. He was slick and hot, and there was something about the new angle, about the way he rubbed against her on the inside. "Oh," she said again. She rocked against him. She was rapidly losing her composure. "Yes," she managed, her breath quickening, and she smothered a moan.

Cullen was getting breathless too, just by watching her. "Don't hold back," he said. He wanted to hear her sounds. Well, she wanted to make them. And she did. She panted. She moaned. She _oohed_ and _aahed_ and _yesed_. She watched Cullen unravel as she rode him. She saw he was trying to wait for her climax and her sense of rivalry kicked in. She would make him come first.

"Cullen," she said, deciding his name would be a potent weapon.

He realized what she was doing and got that faint smile, the one that made her toes curl, and regained a foothold on his control. "Must it always be a game with you, messere? You know who will win."

"Cullen," she crooned. "Let go. Give in."

"After you, messere. It won't be long."

He was probably right. Undaunted, she continued. "Cullen, I want to feel your—oh—_oh_—"

He adjusted the angle of his hips again and she moaned in response. He wasn't going to make this easy for her. "Always so competitive," he said, his breathing uneven.

"Cul—" she began, and he retaliated with a thrust, prompting another moan in response.

"Wrong words, messere," he said. But his voice, clipped and unsteady, disagreed.

"And you know the right words?" she asked, all but panting. He saw the impending climax in her eyes. He grabbed her hands and pulled them down, drawing her to him, and kissed the hollow of her neck. He began to wind his way up her neck, kisses and bites intermingling. He was clean-shaven, so there was no stubble this time—only the heated press of his mouth. He smelled of soap and lyrium, a combination she was fast learning to associate with release. When he reached her ear and bit lightly, his breath tickling her skin, she whimpered, overwhelmed. Her hands trembled under his.

"Messere," he breathed, pressing his cheek to hers, his voice warm in her ear.

"_Oh_," she said, a combination of moan and sigh.

"Come for me, messere," he whispered, and thrust.

Those were the right words. She obeyed and came white-hot, clenching against him, shuddering. After two strokes, he followed, the jerk of his hips bouncing her on his lap, forcing a tiny noise from her throat. He squeezed her hands in a brief, tantalizing burst of intimacy. She slumped against him and laughed breathlessly, listening as his heartbeat gradually slowed to normal. She took a moment to collect herself and reflect on the situation. She had him all to herself. For the rest of the day. She wasn't going to let it go to waste.

"More," she said, the demand muffled against his neck.

"Tell me what you want."

She sat up. "I want to see you," she said. She tugged at his shirt. She heard the whisper of the belt before she saw him pull it free. He looped it loosely around her neck and her heart quickened. She maintained eye contact while he tightened the slack. When the belt was secure around her neck and she could feel the press of the leather through every breath and swallow.

"I want to get to know you better, messere," he said.

A trade, then. She licked her lips. "Yes, Knight-Captain," she said, and he stirred inside her.

He loosened the belt and pulled it away. "On the bed," he ordered, and she complied. He took his time undressing, removing his boots before pulling the shirt over his head. Her suspicions of a solid build were confirmed, along with an assortment of scars and tan lines from training outdoors. He stood to remove his trousers and her eye was naturally drawn to the trail of hair that narrowed at his navel and widened on its way down to his—

She snapped her eyes to his face, raising her eyebrows in silent apology.

"Like what you see, messere?" he asked, unperturbed.

"Was there any question?"

He smiled and her stomach flipped. "Let's discover what else you like, shall we?" He slapped the belt against his palm.

It never occurred to her that Cullen might be exercising restraint on those earlier occasions, but clearly he had been. This time he didn't hold back. He dominated her completely and she loved every second of it. She loved the way he snapped the leather against her backside with a sting that made her equally writhing and wet. She loved the way he cinched the belt around her neck, keeping her on the constant brink of breathlessness. She loved the way he tested her, exploring her body, learning what drove her crazy, what made her wettest, what drew the loudest moans, what made her plead, what made her beg. Soon he had her panting and begging on all fours, sweating from exertion, cunt dripping in anticipation, backside rosy and raw from an expert belting that meted out a perfect blend of pleasure and pain, with the belt itself repurposed snugly around her throat.

"Please, Knight-Captain," she said. She could never say please enough, as it turned out. She could never say his name enough. He always demanded more and she was hungry to oblige.

He pushed her down onto the mattress, angling her sensitive backside towards him, and pressed against her. "Are you ready, messere?"

"Yes, Knight-Captain," she moaned.

"Are you certain?"

And so it went.

When he finally mounted her it was too much. She came as soon as he pushed into her, seized by a roaring orgasm that shook her foundations and reduced her to a quivering lump of jelly. He didn't grow lax in his efforts. He pulled the makeshift leash, bringing her back to the present, and began thrusting hard and fast. She was sensitive, too-sensitive, much-too-sensitive and she trembled as he took her from much-too-sensitive to beyond. Her back was pressed against his chest, and he shifted his weight, pinning her hands beneath his, caging her under the arch of his body.

"Tell me what you want, messere," he said, and the rawness of it sent a shiver through her.

"Come inside me," she begged. She wanted to feel his release, to hear his shudder.

"Ask properly," he told her, his breath hot and heavy and needy on her neck.

"Knight-Captain, please come inside me," she choked out, and he did, but not before he reached between her legs and brought her walls crashing down once again. After he came she collapsed onto the mattress under his weight, utterly spent and tangled in the sweaty sheets. When she recovered, she was aware of a pillow tucked under her head and the absence of the belt.

She thought he would leave her alone to rest and recover but he didn't. Slowly, methodically, he rubbed her neck, legs, backside, and arms, soothing taut muscles. She closed her eyes, focusing on the physical sensations: the steady kneading of his strong hands; the warm, damp cloth he ran between her legs and down length of her thighs; the onset of chill and the belated realization she was shivering. He tucked a blanket around her, rubbing his hands over it to warm her, and when the shivering subsided he carefully dressed her, smoothing each crease and fastening each button, even brushing her hair out with his fingers. At some point he raised her head to put a glass of water to her lips. She hadn't heard him retrieve it and didn't know she needed it until she felt the edge of the glass. She drank it all and fell back on the pillows. Her body had recovered; a tired, aching satisfaction was all that remained.

His weight shifted the mattress as he sat. "I may have gotten carried away," he said, smoothing his shirt.

She laughed. Either Cullen had an instinct for what she liked or he knew how to make the things he liked intensely enjoyable. She was starting to wonder if she'd be able to enjoy normal sex after this.

"I hope I didn't scare you off," he said.

"It'll take more than that," she said, hoping he took the challenge to heart. "I could sleep forever, though."

"Stay as long as you need." He smoothed an errant wrinkle in her skirt. "When can I see you again?"

Maker, he was something. She was going to have to go back to her old training schedule if she wanted to keep up with him. She was in good shape, but he definitely had more stamina. "Next week, same time?"

"It would be my pleasure," he said.

"I bet you say that to all the girls," she said, and regretted the comment immediately. Cullen was a private man. Whether she meant it in jest or not, it was too close to prying. "I look forward to seeing you again," she said, sitting up.

He glanced away. "I'm glad, Serah Hawke." He gave it no particular inflection, but she got tingly anyhow. He leaned forward and brushed his lips against hers. He decided that wasn't acceptable and tried again, more distinctly the second time. It was a firm kiss that did not linger. "Good night."

Feeling tired, she rolled over on her side and watched the sunset through the window until she drifted to sleep. When she woke, the room was chilly and dark, and Cullen was gone.

Vincent was taking tremendous advantage of their alliance. He'd been charged with planning the banquet, which meant he had to attend one obligation or disaster after another, and he dragged Hawke along for support. She didn't mind for the most part. Vincent was good-humored and consistently plied her with quality wine. He was openly affectionate and doting and she liked his familiarity.

She knew Vincent was more stressed than usual when he arrived to escort her to the Orduev party smelling overwhelmingly of brandy. He clasped her hands at the threshold and solemnly said, "Run away with me, my sweet pearl. Antiva awaits."

Hawke was no stranger to cloying pet names. Amongst her various suitors she had been called flower, pearl, lamb, and heart. She made the mistake of telling Vincent about the nicknames while they were drinking one evening. He delightedly latched onto "pearl," insisting she was_indeed a treasure_, and Hawke had been waiting for the opportunity to saddle him with a little pet name of her own.

"Of course, my beautiful dove," she cooed, leaning in for an overwrought kiss, and he smiled against her lips. After her mother nearly died from pure joy over the gratuitous display of affection they departed arm-in-arm.

"What's wrong?" she asked, when they were on the street. Usually Vincent waited until he'd greeted the host before he started in on the brandy.

"They sent the wrong table runners. They are lovely, but not hand-sewn by blind, impoverished children living in caves, so they cannot possibly pass muster. I was advised that the chef is threatening to quit because the Orlesian-style hors d'oeuvres require a certain type of mollusk that is regrettably unavailable this season, and substituting a similar mollusk will destroy the meal's overlying theme entirely and will give any discriminating guest indigestion. Also, the date has been moved again. Papi—erm, _father_ wants some of the decorative work redone and insists the ship be completed before the naming."

"My biggest concerns used to be starving or getting murdered in my sleep. If only I'd known the grim realities of Hightown."

"Yes, yes, I live a charmed life," Vincent said, sighing. "Let me show you what all the fuss is about. You don't have the appropriate gravitas." He steered her towards the docks.

"You're serving Agrisio. I have plenty of gravitas."

"Apologies, my dear. The Agrisio is reserved for romantic friends. We are mere business partners."

"Surely you can spare a bottle. How many friends could you possibly have?"

"Only three dozen. I'm seating them at the front tables next to my great aunt. And I thought we agreed no questions."

"I agreed to share you, my dove. I didn't agree to share your cellar."

Vincent turned, taking her by the waist. "You _are_ a pearl," he said, with genuine affection.

"Well, with the aforementioned thirty-six, you've already got enough for a full string—"

He kissed her. With Vincent, kissing was a coordinated full-body exercise, from the parting of his lips to the barest press of his tongue to the way he tilted her back to the gentle stroke of his fingers along the nape of her neck. Her body reacted appropriately to this stimuli and immediately a soft mewl was at her throat.

He broke away, satisfied with the diversion. "No more talk of pearls, my dear. Now, tell me what you think." His hands were still on her hips, his thumbs tracing suggestive circles.

"I'd need to try it again to be sure," she said, a little flushed.

"How can such a fearsome slayer of darkspawn be so easily distracted?" He pointed to the shipyard, pivoting her in the direction of the ship's mooring. "That, my dear, is the fuss."

"Oh, my," she said. She'd seen the ship before, but she hadn't realized it was Lord Altrada's ship. Isabela had been drooling over it.

"She's a beauty," he agreed. "Built to my father's specifications. He had a hand in every detail, of which there were many. It must be quite a thing, to sail away in a ship like that."

Hawke studied the way he looked out at the open sea. "Are you happy here, Vincent?"

"Happy?" He considered. "I'm not unhappy. After the Fettered Row returned to Antiva I intended to strike out on my own, but father had already written asking me to relocate to Kirkwall. I didn't especially want to, but I felt… Well, with Gus dead and Arlo in Orlais, there was no one else to help with the family business. After all he's done for us, father deserves our support. He's worked hard his whole life. He needs some of that weight lifted from his shoulders."

"Do you miss Antiva?"

"Yes," he said. "Does that surprise you?" It did not. She sometimes found herself longing for the wet chill of winter snow and the beauty of forested hills, even though she knew there was nothing in Ferelden for her to return to. Her hand found his, and when she squeezed, he reciprocated. "Are you happy here?" he asked.

She reached for an answer, jostling the little locked boxes, but they did not budge. "Someone once told me I needed to know when to leap, when to fly. At first I thought escaping the Blight might be the leap. Then I thought it was surviving the Deep Roads. Hightown seems like such a boring, hollow life. There must be more. I want to fall. I want to leap. I want to fly into the sun. But I look at Bethany and mother and wonder if I have the right to even think that way. What happens to them if I leap and I don't fly? And what happens to them if I do?"

"I stand corrected," Vincent said. Hawke snapped from her reverie; she'd briefly forgotten him, in spite of their clasped hands. "You've ample gravitas. Perhaps you're destined for deeper waters after all." The curiosity in his eyes impelled her to look away. "But for now, could I interest you in some time in the shallows?" he asked, intuiting her discomfort. "We've merrymaking to attend." Hawke glanced back out over the water, watching the waves lap at the docks as gulls dove among the white crests, the lucky few departing with fish gasping in their beaks.


	5. Chapter 5

After several months of courtship Vincent began to make the usual inroads into marriage, testing the waters with gentle flirtation when they were tipsy at parties with their arms wound about one another. Hawke resisted his attempts with good humor, just as she'd resisted being his pearl, but he'd already made far greater progress down that path than any suitor before him. As time passed, and her affection for him grew, a part of her wondered what it would be like to wed to a man like Vincent.

They had not had sex but there had been a few close encounters, most notably at the Galleria party. They'd both drunk more than was strictly necessary. Vincent made a joke about Lady Portia Dumar's young Orlesian lover and Hawke laughed so hard she snorted, and could not stop laughing, necessitating a swift exit from the room.

"My dear," Vincent said plaintively, ushering her down the hall. He tried to adopt a stern expression, but Hawke's giggling was infectious. After four glasses of the Versallian she was unstoppable. "I have to speak to Lord Galleria before we go. Stay here until I can track him down."

"Can't it wait?" Hawke asked, tugging on his hands, delighted at the prospect of leaving early. "Can't you talk to him at the Keep?"

"No, no, my dear, he's drunk now, he's right where I need him."

"There will be other parties," Hawke said, and Vincent gave her a funny look. "What?"

"Have you ever been to Galleria's… other parties?" he asked mildly. It was the way he said it. Vincent had a particular way of saying the word "party" when referring to a _special_ kind of party. Hawke let out a guffaw. It was all over. There would be no quieting her now. "My dear," Vincent sighed. He glanced over her shoulder, then opened the nearest door and dragged her into the closet. "Pull yourself together, Serah Hawke," he said, holding her close in the cramped space, giving her hips a playful squeeze. Hawke only laughed harder.

"You leave me no choice," Vincent said, and kissed her. Hawke's laughter transmuted to a giggle, then a hum. The kiss deepened and Hawke's fingers tightened on his arms as she was drawn in by the caress of his tongue. She was keenly aware of the line of his body, of the hand that glided up her hip. Vincent cupped her breast and she made a sound in her throat and bit his lip. He slid his other hand across her stomach, and she thought he was going to cup her other breast, but instead he ran his fingers down between her legs. Her body responded to his practiced touch, opening up, growing wet, sighing. He stroked her firmly through the dress and his thumb rolled across her nipple, again and again, drawing her nearer and nearer, until—

She came. It was a soft, light, shuddering orgasm,tendrils of arousal spreading out along her body, leaving her with a peculiar sense of lightness. "Vincent," she said, the word shaky. He kept his hand firmly between her legs until the trembling subsided. It had all happened quickly and Hawke's mind, already softened with inebriation, felt jumbled. Vincent kissed her again and she realized he was hard. She cupped him and felt him move under her palm.

"Let me," she breathed, already fumbling with his trousers.

"Far be it for me to deny a lady," he murmured, kissing her, and she giggled against his mouth. She wrapped her fingers around his cock and he moaned, and he was kissing her gently, his hands in her hair, rolling his hips with her strokes. Even in the heat of passion, Vincent had a certain grace. His lips paused against her throat and he sighed with deep satisfaction as he came. His release was warm on her hand and wrist. She slowed her strokes and did not let go until Vincent produced a handkerchief and wiped her hand.

"Darling, you are ever the highlight of my evening," he mused, pressing his forehead to hers, and Hawke giggled again and bumped his nose with hers. The haze of wine and orgasm were dissipating, leaving her with a warm glow.

"Likewise, my dear," she said.

Vincent finished straightening his clothes and drew her back into his embrace. "We should do that more often," he said, kissing her.

"How often?" she asked.

"Constantly," he said, his thumbs circling, ever circling, on her hips.

"You're euphoric," she told him. She reached for the door, expecting him to let go, but he didn't.

"I'm serious. We should do this, Marian," he said. "We should take the plunge. We're good for each other. We can make it work."

"It seems so early," she said. The glow was fading. The closet felt claustrophobic; it was hot and stuffy, being crammed in such a small space with so many cloaks and furs.

"We've courted longer than most. The average couple already has already conceived their first by now." Hawke stiffened in his arms. Immediately, Vincent's tone became soothing, his touch placating. "Forgive me, my dear, I meant nothing by it. Children don't concern me. All we need are each other. I'm more convinced by the day."

Hawke desperately wanted to argue, but she'd been caught off-guard and had brought no ammunition to bear. She shifted from one foot to the other and said, "It just seems so early."

"Please consider it," he said. "You've been brushing me off and you always put off these discussions—" She gave him a look. "My dear," he said. "You are evasive. You cannot deny it."

She pulled away and reached for the door. The glow was gone and the closet was definitely claustrophobic. "I'll think about it," she said tersely.

He pulled her close and kissed her again. She was merely tolerant; the pleasure of the wine was gone and she was in no mood for affection. "Marian," he said, taking her face in his hands. "Please, think about it. Eventually we need to talk about this. Really talk. I understand your fears. I have my own. But I truly feel we have something here."

"Of course," Hawke said, nodding, even as her fingers closed around the doorknob.

Hawke and Cullen enjoyed two types of encounters: short and long. Hawke liked both.

The short visits were charming in their own way. Cullen's habit of arriving fully-armored, tossing his sword and shield aside, and taking her wherever she stood left an undeniable impact. Whenever she saw a templar shield propped against a wall she felt a delicious little shiver.

The longer visits were a blur of foreplay, sex, and sleep that seemed dreamlike on reflection. Theirs was a winding dance, a slow weave of restraints and domination and surrender punctuated with intensely passionate bursts of fucking. They both liked to test and challenge each other in the bedroom; the spirit of their rivalry remained strong.

Hawke hadn't expected the affair to last this long. As time passed, and Cullen's interest failed to diminish, she began to tap at his armored shell, seeking an opening, wanting to know him. Cullen always resisted her overtures. If she persisted, he employed highly effective modes of distraction. This tug-of-war continued until two particular encounters changed the trajectory of the relationship.

The first was a short visit on a sweltering day. The winds were unusually low and the sun and humidity were oppressive, leaving Kirkwall in a lethargic haze. It marked the first time Cullen could not get hard. It wasn't for his willingness or Hawke's lack of trying. Eventually, he grabbed her wrist, stilling her hand. She went to take him in her mouth and he pushed her back onto the bed. He readjusted his skirts.

"Cullen," she said.

He ignored her and parted her legs, dropping to one knee. Normally, this would have been arousing (there was something profoundly erotic about a soldier of the Chantry on his knees), but the mood was all wrong. His jaw was set. He was tense. His movements were brusque. He was frustrated about something outside their room.

"Cullen," she repeated. She closed her legs. He looked up, his hands firm on her thighs, his jaw set. "Talk to me," she said. He sighed. "Please?" she asked.

He pressed his forehead against her knee. "Is that what you want, messere?" He sounded disheartened.

"I came here to see you. We don't always have to… you know." His grip relaxed. She urged his hands aside and reached for her smalls, which had become tangled around her right ankle, and tugged them back on. It was true, she realized. She wanted to _see him_, not necessarily have sex with him, though it had certainly been about the sex in the beginning. She was unable to recall when this change had come about.

Cullen sat, his weight bouncing her on the mattress. This was different: sitting, talking. He wore his uncertainty awkwardly, his hands restless on the edge of the mattress.

Hawke took the initiative. "Sometimes I need to get away," Hawke said, straightening her robes. "I like seeing you." She leaned back, folding her arms under her head, and stared up at the ceiling. It had an intricate repeating design that she'd grown familiar with. She traced the lines with her eyes.

"Get away."

"She expects a lot of me." She'd never talked about her mother before.

"Such as?"

"Find a noble husband. Produce noble grandchildren. Make noble friends in the appropriate noble circles. Throw extravagant parties, earn political favors, forge alliances. Increase the family's fortune and status. Don't do anything embarrassing. Don't abandon my sister again. Don't get killed. Always use the right fork. Never soil a handkerchief in public. Chew with my mouth closed. Convince my uncle to stop gambling and start shaving."

"That's all?" His tone was dismissive, but his eyes were watchful. He was listening.

"Oh, yes, and don't fraternize with templars."

He chuckled. "Prudent," he said, lying back on the bed and tucking an arm under his head. He stared up at the ceiling alongside her.

"You seem stressed," she said, capitalizing on the moment.

He considered before answering. "She expects a lot of me." He'd never talked about Meredith before.

"Such as?"

"Holding it all together, evidently," he said tiredly.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"I'd rather not." He decided that was not sufficient and added, "I don't want that—" He gestured outside. "—In here."

She turned over on her stomach, propping her chin in her hand, and gazed out the window. The Gallows and Hightown stood tall in the distance. She watched a handful of gulls dip among the whitecaps and become tiny specks as they flew away. The longer she looked at the Gallows the more uneasy she became. Something unhappy gnawed at her, something she did not want to explore, and she locked the feeling away.

Cullen caught her expression. "Messere, are you satisfied?" he asked. What a question. And from him, of all people. She'd never had a partner that tried harder to please in bed. She'd certainly never been with someone who asked so little in return. As long as they kept their routine, Cullen seemed content. They admittedly did not talk much, and she did not know him the way she knew Vincent, but Cullen never asked her for favors or tried to talk her into anything. In some ways, she felt she knew him better than anyone.

Hawke had not yet broached the subject of marrying Vincent and neither had Cullen, even though the courtship was public knowledge and rumors swirled. In the back of her mind, she knew the subject should have been addressed at least once by now, and that the lack of discussion meant Cullen was avoiding the subject as doggedly as she. Rather than consider the implications she accepted the reprieve and continued avoiding the issue. Their relationship was reliable, sexually satisfying, and uncomplicated. She wanted to keep it that way.

"Of course," she said.

He hesitated. "Is there… anything else you want?" He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye.

"You're all I need," she said, wanting to reassure him. He relaxed and looked back up at the ceiling, rubbing his shoulder absently. She rolled on her side to face him. "I could loosen your shoulder," she said. "I've picked up a few techniques." He was favoring his right arm as though it pained him. Aveline had several persistent knots that benefited from regular attention and Hawke used her for practice. She was getting better at isolating and relieving pressure points.

Cullen closed his eyes. "Messere," he breathed, with such gratitude her heart swelled.

"Is that a yes, Knight-Captain?"

"_Yes_, messere," he said, and she smiled, reaching for him. From then on he was more willing to talk and Hawke no longer had to piece together all the things that hadn't been said. He was still a reticent man, but there were layers of subtlety she came to understand.

The second encounter of significance was a long visit. Cullen had taken an interest in tying her down (or up, or however, depending on his mood) and on this particular occasion he'd tied her feet to the bed and her hands behind her back and he was trying to make her say his name. She'd valiantly denied him the satisfaction of those two blessed syllables, but it wasn't easy, especially when he began to trace a slow line up her stomach with his tongue. When he reached her right breast and wet her nipple, she pushed against her bound wrists, lifting her chest. He pressed her down against the mattress.

"Messere," he said patiently. He resumed his path up her chest, along her collarbone, and up her neck, and she moaned quietly. "You know what you must do." He purposefully dragged his cock across her inner thigh, and when she felt his stiffness at the juncture between her thigh and groin it brought a noise to her throat. "Say my name, messere," he murmured, his breath warm against her ear. "I'll give you anything you want."

She wanted him to say her name first, but at this rate, she wouldn't last much longer. She knew from experience once she started moaning his name she had difficulty stopping. She didn't want to give him the satisfaction, not after she'd held out this long. Special measures were in order. "I'll tell you what I want," she said. "I want you to take me while I'm bound and wet, aching for you. I want you to ride me hard until I beg for your release. I want you inside me, I want your come inside me. I want you to make me climax for you again and again. You're the only one that can satisfy me." She rolled her hips, pressing against him. She was slick with arousal and the contact made him twitch against her.

"You're trying to trick me, messere," he said softly, biting at her ear, making her moan. Maker, he was hard. She could tell by the way he rubbed against her, the head of his cock persistent at her entrance, that he was at the edge of his control.

"I'm yours," she said. "Show me what that means." It was supposed to be a taunt, something to goad him over the edge, but her voice came out breathy and wanting. He twitched again and she shuddered.

Cullen looked down at her. She could see the gears turning. He tugged the restraints around her ankles loose, but left her wrists bound behind her back. He rolled her over, pressing her belly flat against the mattress, and straddled her legs. He rubbed her buttocks and she hummed. Her behind was still tender and rosy; a thorough spanking had been one of his earlier strategies.

"Have I ever mentioned how completely I wish to know you, messere?"

No, he hadn't. She peered over her shoulder at him. He lowered his face to her backside, biting gently, and she wiggled, mewling. She'd recently learned she enjoyed being bitten—another curious bit of foreplay that had been heretofore undiscovered.

"I intend explore every inch of you," he said. Another nip. She squirmed. She'd held out until now, but damn him, he might be onto something. "Every inch," he repeated. He rubbed his thumb purposefully against her anus and she stifled a sound, embarrassed by her own titillation. He stroked in a circular motion and the resulting tingle overrode any misgivings she might have about being touched there.

"Has anyone touched you like this?" He'd brought up the subject before in his own way, with the glancing pass of his tongue or the brush of a slicked finger, but he'd never asked directly until now.

She responded to the stroke of his thumb, gyrating against his right hand, and felt heat building between her legs. It was sensitive and warm and tingly. Like many things, she decided not to question it. "No," she mumbled, unable to muster anything witty.

"Good," he said. His tone made her stomach flutter. "Do you trust me, messere?" he asked, rubbing her backside.

"Yes," she said.

He leaned forward. She was not expecting the warm flick of his tongue and she almost screamed. She writhed and he gripped her firmly, holding her still as he licked again. Oh, dear blessed Maker, that was sinful. How could a templar, of all people, know to do that? He ran his tongue slowly and deliberately across, then—

_Sweet Andraste_, she thought, delirious. She wasn't particularly religious, but Maker, she might need to pray after this one.

"You like that." His voice was husky now. She wasn't sure if he was more aroused by what he was doing or her reaction to it.

"Oh, Maker, yes," she mumbled, burying her face in the mattress, unable to avoid the fierce blush that rolled across her face. She wasn't sure if she'd be able to look him in the eye anymore.

He licked and kissed her with his trademark enthusiasm until she was incoherent and whimpering and so aroused her body felt electric. When he stopped, he asked again, "Do you trust me?"

"Yes," she moaned. She felt his weight momentarily ease as the bed shifted. When he touched her again, his fingers were slick. She risked a partial glance over her shoulder, only willing to retreat from the cover of the sheets so far. "Wait, where did—?"

"Shut up," he said quietly, and he eased a finger into her. She groaned, overwhelmed. She struggled to remember what Isabela had said about this that one time they were drinking alone and ended up tangled together in a giggling mess of leggings and armor on the floor. All she could remember was something about oil and trust. Well, both were in ample supply, evidently.

She'd never appreciated Cullen's meticulous nature more than she did now. He took his time preparing her, rubbing the small of her back reassuringly as he inserted a second finger, then a third. He eased the transition, stroking slowly and carefully, allowing her body to adjust to the new intrusion. Each time he asked, "Do you like that?" and each time she moaned that she did. When he withdrew, she peered back at him once again. He was coating himself with oil, his cock hard and glistening in his hand. He leaned over her, his right hand slippery and warm on her hip, and pushed between the cleft of her buttocks experimentally. His cock glided effortlessly against her and she whimpered.

"Messere, please tell me you want this." Cullen never begged per se, but on occasion he made extremely impassioned requests with special emphasis on words like "please." This was one such occasion.

She relished the insistent press of his cock against her ass, then said, "Yes."

"Relax and breathe," he told her, massaging her hip.

She nodded. He pressed into her partway and she groaned. He withdrew. "Are you all right?"

"Oh," she said. "Yes, yes."

He pressed into her again, this time slightly further, and she moaned. "Oh, Maker," she said, as he withdrew again. "Oh, Maker, I want you inside me so badly," she said, twisting her wrists against their restraints.

"Messere," he said, leaning down to kiss her fingers.

"Mmm, yes," she said. "Keep going."

He continued testing her, slowly pushing in and withdrawing, eliciting moans and yeses, until he finally pushed into her to the hilt. There was intense pressure while he entered, followed by a brief reprieve and a radiating sense of fullness. It was different than vaginal penetration—tighter, hotter, almost overwhelmingly intimate. It was not as stimulating, but it had its own merits, not the least of which was Cullen's reaction: the quickening of his breath, the way he kneaded her backside, the gentle rock of his hips.

She nearly said his name, but checked herself. He was at her mercy. She couldn't let this opportunity pass. She clenched her muscles and his breath caught. He stifled a moan and—oh, she had him going now. She loved the sound he made. It nicely complimented the hot, tight pulse of his cock inside her.

"Say my name and I'll do that again," she said sweetly, breathlessly.

"Sweet Andraste," he whispered, the words stretched with need. He tried to resist, he truly did, but she gave a little twitch and he groaned and surrendered a husky, "Messere Hawke," to her waiting ears. Close enough, she decided. She rewarded each increasingly ragged, "Messere Hawke," with a hard squeeze until he came undone. His release was jarring, almost painful, but the way he clutched her body so tightly made her sigh.

She was giddy with her success and a victory taunt sprang to her lips. "Did you enjoy saying my—" She didn't even get the customary, "Shut up," this time. Cullen flipped her over and kissed her fervently, all tongue and passion, crushing her bound wrists beneath her. A surprised "Oh!" caught in her throat.

He reached between her legs with his left hand, slipped two fingers into her, firmly pressing his thumb against her clitoris, and brought her roaring into orgasm. When she promptly chased the first orgasm with a second, it had little to do with his deft fingers or the way her wrists were bound tightly behind her back or the comfortable ache in her rear and everything to do with the raw emotion in his kisses, and—Maker—_Maker_—why hadn't they tried this sooner? After the storm subsided, he circled his arms around her and pulled her onto her side, fumbling for the belt tied around her wrists, and she wiggled closer in his embrace, pressing her lips to his.

"Did you enjoy saying my name, Knight-Captain?" she asked, unabashedly gloating.

"Shut up," he mumbled into her mouth, still working at the knots behind her back.

She didn't point out that he could flip her over and untie the belt more easily. Cullen did not, as a rule, dispense hugs, and she took advantage of any opportunity to be in his arms. "You could call me Marian," she told him. "That's my given name." He grunted. "You should try it out sometime. You might like it. Phonetically, the—"

He gave her a sloppy kiss and she fell silent. Only recently had he begun to let his guard down in this way. The mask, which always snapped back into place so quickly in the beginning, was being left alongside the bed for longer stretches of time. She welcomed the change.

Soon, her euphoria faded and fatigue set in. These longer visits took a significant physical and emotional toll and the higher she soared, the farther she plummeted. Fortunately, Cullen took an active role in her recovery. She looked forward to the aftercare as much as the sex itself. He was always attentive to her needs, massaging and stretching sore muscles, giving her water or a pillow or a blanket, helping her dress. Lately, he'd taken to drawing her a bath. She hadn't managed to convince him to join her in the tub, but she was working on it. In the meantime, she enjoyed the intimacy of the experience. He was as conscientious as ever, careful to safeguard her eyes from water and soap, mindful of the angle of her neck, and thorough in all his ministrations.

Today he'd decided she required more care than usual, and after he soaped her body he lathered her hair as well. She closed her eyes and relaxed. The feel of his fingers through her hair and against her scalp was soothing. It seemed to her that he lingered in rinsing, being a bit more methodical than necessary, and when she opened her eyes she noticed a crease in his brow as he ran his fingers through her hair. She recognized the look; his mind was elsewhere.

"There's room for two," she said, by way of invitation.

He met her eyes. She thought he was considering it, but he said, "I'd hoped to get your opinion on a business matter."

"Oh?" She ducked under the water, smoothing back her wet hair. Her breasts broke the surface when she sat up. He didn't look, but he trailed a hand absently down her arm, brushing the slope of her chest.

"I'm making an investment," he said. "Property."

She was pleased he'd asked. She'd made a lot of property investments in recent months and was knowledgeable about the current market. "Do you want to show me tonight?"

"You should rest."

"We could go in the morning," she said, affecting a casual tone. She had never asked him to spend the night with her because she'd never had a convenient opening.

"I need to return this evening," he said, looking away. "We can go another time."

"Let's go now," she said, grabbing his hand, urging him to meet her eyes again. "I'd like to see it."

The property was farther down the eastern coast, where Lowtown tapered off into the sparser settlements along the outskirts of the city. It was a small, private plot with a cottage, perched on a relatively flat grade, with a winding path that led down to the shore. The beach front was open and clear and provided an ocean view unmarred by the Gallows and Kirkwall's chains. The cottage was nestled among dunes and broken fencing, nearly hidden from roadside view. The walls were in disrepair and layered with a patina of salt, sand, and age.

"It needs work," Cullen warned, attempting to curb her expectations, but he needn't worry. Hawke was a businesswoman at heart and a shrewd judge of intrinsic value. Immediately, she recognized the solid foundations and the strength of the framework. The house might seem a broken mess to the untrained eye, but she knew a diamond when she saw it, no matter the grade. The clean lines and broad beams were of a distinctly Ferelden style that held innate appeal to her. Everything damaged could be repaired with time and care; everything else—the foundations, the location, the view, the topography—was perfect in her eyes. She was amazed such a gem had been overlooked until now. It was like finding a chunk of glass in the sand and realizing it was an uncut diamond of flawless clarity.

"Cullen, this is…" She walked down the path several paces and turned to him. "This is a wonderful fit."

"I think so," he said quietly.

"How long have you been waiting?" she asked, taking it all in.

"Several years," he said. "The time was finally right."

"What are your plans?"

"I'll restore it myself."

She nodded. Yes, she could see it. The house was small enough that one man could undertake the job alone. That was probably what had saved the little cottage from the grasping hands of the nobility. The plot was intended for a modest home, not an estate, and any number of prospective Hightown buyers might have appreciated the location and topography but found it unsuitable for expansion.

"What a beautiful place to live," Hawke said, reflecting that the cove by the inn had a similar prettiness. "I'd be happy to settle here myself. It has so much potential."

"I'm glad you think so."

She walked back down the path, still enraptured by the possibilities, and returned to him. "Well done, Knight-Captain. A wise investment, I think."

"Well, it's not official yet," he said, pleased.

"When will you close?"

"Soon. The preliminaries are in order."

She took his hand. "Congratulations." That was when she noticed the tremor in his grip. It hadn't been there earlier. The spicy, metallic scent she associated with lyrium was only faintly discernible. Mostly, he smelled of soap. "I hope you'll have me over when you're ready," she said, distracted by these realizations.

"Of course," he said.

Was he giving up lyrium? Was it even possible? Her father had warned Bethany that lyrium was dangerously addictive and difficult to quit. Anders had expressed similar concerns. She'd heard the stories—that the Chantry used lyrium to keep templars dependent and in line, exposing them to such large dosages that they would never be able to go without. She'd seen former templars with bright blue eyes and parched mouths scrounging for "dust" at the docks and in Darktown. They were slaves to it, even as it poisoned them. She'd seen a few older templars shuffling about the Gallows, gazing vacantly to the heavens with blue eyes as empty as the smiles that flitted across their faces. She thought of Cullen scrabbling for lyrium in dark places or of being an addled shell of his former self and was immediately disconcerted. An icy hand clenched at her heart and she shoved it away.

"Serah Hawke?"

She was holding his hand tightly. She looked into his eyes, really looked. They were hazel without a speck of blue. Were the blue eyes the sign that it had gone too far? Did hazel eyes mean he had a chance? She wanted to ask, but was afraid to know. "I'm confident in you," she said.

"I am not," he admitted.

"You could ask for help."

"I must do this on my own, messere."

She looked back at the little cottage, trying to imagine how it would look with the roof repaired and the sand swept away. "I understand."

He kissed her hand. The ground did not shift beneath her feet, as it did when he kissed her neck, or swallow her up whole, as it did when she climaxed. Yet something did change, something almost imperceptible that she could not explain. She did not dwell on it. When she left him, and the image of the cottage among the dunes stayed with her, she could not explain that either.

Finally, the grand Altrada banquet arrived. Hawke was relieved. The preparations had been a tremendous source of stress for Vincent. Once the banquet was underway, and Vincent felt confident something wouldn't go horribly wrong, he relaxed and they took the opportunity to get wonderfully drunk. Well, tipsy. They were tipsy. They greeted guests and preened for their mothers, then demolished an expensive bottle of something unpronounceable and invaded the ballroom floor in a whirl of skirts and laughter, much to the amusement of those in attendance. They even managed to wheedle a smile from the normally stiff-lipped Magistrate Dowell.

"My dear," Vincent said, giving her a twirl. "People will think you're in love."

"Don't be alarmed, my dove," Hawke told him. "It's just the wine."

Truthfully though, a bit of it did have to do with him. Once the lack of a certain type of mollusk hadn't proved disastrous after all, Vincent embraced the spirit of the occasion and reminded her how immensely fun he could be. Their natural rapport blazed in moments like these, and Hawke responded to his wit, his familiarity, and his kisses—especially his kisses—in kind, causing their mothers to exchange knowing smiles over short glasses of rose.

Eventually Lord Altrada interrupted the proceedings to make a formal toast and they took their seats at the front table, wine glasses full and at the ready. Vincent's father waited patiently for the din to settle. "You all know my son, Vincent, has been managing the business dockside. I'd like to take a moment to thank him for everything he's done. He uprooted his life in Antiva to come here. He's loyal, hard-working, and asks nothing in return. As you all know, a son who reports to work and can be trusted with liquid assets is a rare commodity." Several of the older guests chuckled and Vincent elbowed Hawke lightly in the ribs, making her giggle. "Not a day goes by that I'm not thankful. I appreciate him more than he can know. Thank you, Vincent." Vincent raised his glass to his father. Lord Altrada cleared his throat and his manner became brisk.

"Now, on to the business at hand. There's a ship moored at the docks that lacks a name and it's customary that the new owner supply it. I declined to tell my son about this last little detail beforehand, so he will need to think quickly on his feet, but I'm sure he can manage." Lord Altrada looked at his son expectantly. "Vincent?" he asked, and motioned for him to come forward.

It was probably the first—and only—time Vincent Altrada would be caught off-guard at a social gathering. When he hesitated Hawke squeezed his hand encouragingly. He returned it and he joined his father at the front of the room. Side-by-side, they were undeniable reflections of each other. The elder was heavier and mustached and gray, but they shared the same elegant builds, clever eyes, and knowing smiles.

"I… Forgive me," Vincent said, clearing his throat.

"Ladies and gentlemen, savor this moment. My son has finally been rendered speechless," Messere Altrada said, and the crowd laughed.

"Yes, truly," Vincent said. "I…" He hugged his father. His muffled, "Thank you," was barely audible. Hawke reached for her mother's hand and received a maternal squeeze in return.

"What will you name her, Vini?" his father asked, when they parted.

Vincent cast about the room and his eyes fell on Hawke, who was taking a sip of her wine. "The Rising Hawk," he said.

A murmur went through the crowd. Hawke nearly choked. Leandra gripped her hand so tightly Hawke thought she might lose circulation.

"To the Rising Hawk," Messere Altrada said, lifting his glass. "May she sail safely and voyage far." The room toasted with a chorus of, "Here!"

"Oh, Marian," her mother said, clutching her hand. "I'm so happy for you. It's such a wonderful match."

Hawke's cheeks were flaming, but she maintained her composure. When Vincent returned to their table, he leaned in and gave her a chaste kiss.

"I can explain," he murmured, recognizing her expression.

"Please do," she murmured back, vaguely lightheaded.

After Hawke and Vincent managed to extricate themselves from party-goers eager to congratulate and toast they escaped through the east exit of the Altrada estate. Hawke was sobering up, and now that the fog of revelry was clearing the implications of what Vincent had done were quickly sinking in. "My mother thinks we're getting engaged," she told him, when they were arm-in-arm on the street. Her mother had been eagerly awaiting an announcement and Hawke's immediate concern was how disappointed she would be.

"In my defense, I was completely taken by surprise. I became a raving madman, crazed with familial love, and I seized upon the most beautiful thing I saw. Have I mentioned how radiant you are tonight?"

He was much too glib to be sorry, she thought. "Vincent," she said. "I thought we were going to talk about this first."

"Let me show it to you." He put his arm around her waist. "It's lovely. We can talk there."

Upon inspection, Hawke had to admit that the Rising Hawk was indeed a lovely ship. It was large enough to travel swiftly and comfortably, but small enough to be handled by a crew of three. It was beautifully built and would draw looks from passersby when docked, but was too unassuming to draw the attention of pirates when at sea. It had a classic elegance and underneath the embellishments was a hearty infrastructure built to weather the cruelest storms.

Vincent led her below decks to the main quarters. The room had handsome wood paneling and a comfortably-sized bed. He sprawled on the bed. "What do you think?"

She dropped down beside him and gave a test bounce. "Firm with the appropriate amount of give. Excellent quality."

"Yes, I agree."

"Comfortable, large without being unwieldy, good depth..."

"You're a connoisseur."

"I know what I like."

He raised his eyebrows and pointed to himself. "Dare I dream?"

"You know I like you," she said, smiling in spite of her annoyance.

"And rings? Do you like those?"

She sighed. He was still too glib.

"My dear," he said. "Is the idea of getting married really so terrible? I thought you would be happier about this."

"I don't think I'm the marrying type," she said. "I told you that."

"This is different," he insisted. "You and I work so well together. We understand one another."

"Vincent."

"Is this about your friend?"

Her cheeks colored slightly. "No. And we agreed no questions."

He plowed ahead. "Consider how well-matched we are. We get along splendidly. Our families like each other. Our terms work well for us. I'm a rare commodity. You're radiant. Marriage is almost a mere formality at this point." He studied her expression. "We can keep the same terms. You can continue to see him, of course. I want you to be happy."

An image of Cullen's shield leaning against the foot of the bed sprang to her mind. She liked that shield and wanted to continue to see it there, by the bed in the inn, as long as she could. She wanted to continue enjoying their uncomplicated relationship as long as she could. An engagement announcement would definitely complicate matters.

Vincent took her hand. "Marian, I'm extremely fond of you. I don't mean to pressure you, I just—I feel so _certain_ we can make it work."

"Yes, but—Vincent, don't you want to marry someone you're in love with? Shouldn't it be more than simply making it work?"

She couldn't read the expression that flickered across his face and in a second, it was gone, smoothed over by his usual genteel smile. "Love can be fickle. Love can be… temporary. I don't mean to pry, but I get the impression your friend is influencing your decisions about us. I mean no disrespect, but is that wise?"

"You don't know him. You don't anything about him."

"I know you're hiding him from your mother."

She felt a stab of annoyance. "What about your friends? Does Lady Altrada have tea with them?"

"No." He was patient. "But my friends are just that: friends. They don't factor into my life decisions. I'm prepared to move on."

Hawke was not sure where to lash first. She flailed. "Yes, Vincent, you're right, I should invite him over for dinner and introduce him as my lover. I'm sure mother would be thrilled to know about our arrangement. As if she doesn't already hate him enough."

Vincent was studying her intently now. "Marian, who are we talking about?"

If Hawke hadn't already been panicking, his tone would have sent her well on her way. She swallowed, realizing that whatever she had with Cullen, it had gotten much bigger and much more serious, than she'd been willing to admit. "The Knight-Captain," she said, faintly. "It wasn't… it was only physical. I never meant…"

Vincent frowned.

Hawke kept going, compelled to fill the silence. "I'm not ready, Vincent. I can't explain it. It isn't Cullen, it's me. I need more time. I haven't wrapped my mind around it."

"Marian," Vincent said, seizing her hand. "I would never want to pressure you into something you don't want to do. But please consider the benefits. Hear me out."

"I'm sorry," she whispered, and her face crumpled. "I don't—I don't mean to—" Hawke was unable to articulate her fear. She did not understand it. She did not want to understand it. Instead, she became upset, and systematically began to shut all the noise out.

Vincent's expression softened. "It wouldn't hurt to be a little more introspective, my dear."

"Vincent, please don't start about feelings." She blinked rapidly.

"If you would listen I wouldn't have to repeat myself. If you considered and addressed your feelings instead of bottling them up you might save yourself some grief. You have a reputation for sabotaging your relationships when the subject of commitment arises. Has it occurred to you to examine this?"

She bristled. "I don't sabotage anything. They kept pushing me to do things I didn't want. Everyone always wants something from me. Hawke this, Hawke that."

"Marian, you and I are only talking. No one is pushing anyone into anything. Agreed?"

She swallowed. "Yes. We're just talking."

"All I ask is that you give it serious consideration," he said, clasping her hand in his. He nodded to himself, as though he'd gotten an idea. "You should talk to him, if you feel uneasy," he suggested. "Explain the situation and see where you both stand. It might help." Her eyes were surely filled with doubt, because he squeezed her hands and added, "I've had many friends. It's perfectly natural to get attached. But friends come and go, sooner or later. Those types of relationships usually don't last."

"Right." Hawke let out a long breath. "What about Antiva?"

He seemed to expect a change in subject and it did not ruffle him. "I'm not as interested in returning to Antiva as I once was. Marian, stop worrying about what I want and think about what you want." He sighed. "I can't believe I said that. I should be trying to renegotiate terms so I can have a second Orlesian wife and a summer home in Rialto." He put a friendly hand on her knee. "Shall we go? Another glass of wine? Another dance? You were enjoying yourself so much earlier. I can't bear to see you stressed."

"Of course," she said, taking his arm, as grateful to delay the inevitable as always.


	6. Chapter 6

Hawke avoided her mother for several days before reluctantly conceding that she must talk to her about the assumed engagement. She attempted to soften the news. She had Leandra's favorite breakfast waiting: warm Ferelden-style grain bread, fresh fruit, preserves, milk, and potent Rivaini coffee. The curtains were open, the sun was bright, and Hawke wore the family crest of red and gold proudly on her chest. When Leandra came down the stairs to breakfast she was pleased by the sight, as her daughter knew she would be.

"Are you excited?" Leandra asked, pouring a bit of milk into her coffee. She stirred gracefully, her spoon never clinking against the glass.

"Vincent and I aren't getting engaged," Hawke told her. She took her own coffee black. She liked the bitter edge.

"A man doesn't name a ship lightly, Marian."

"Vincent is still entertaining the idea of returning to Antiva—"

"If that's the case, you have some persuading to do."

"—And I'm not sure I'm ready to get married."

Leandra laughed softly. "No one is ever ready to get married." She took another sip. "Passion is wonderful, but it isn't everything. Passion fades. A solid partnership, a smart partnership, will last a lifetime. Vincent is such a smart match."

Hawke took a deep breath. "Mother, I don't want you to get your hopes up. I'm fond of Vincent, but I don't know if marriage is something I'm ready for."

"You're not ready? Or you're not trying?"

"That's hardly fair."

"You've always been impulsive, but you have a good head on your shoulders." Leandra frowned, averting her eyes to butter her bread. "I hope that fling of yours isn't clouding your judgment."

Hawke knew her mother would eventually learn she was seeing Cullen, but as always, she'd put the concern aside to deal with when the problem loomed large. Well, it was looming now. "Who I choose to see is my business, not yours," she said, girding herself for battle.

Leandra was familiar with the sound of her eldest donning plate and mail. "Who is Vincent's father?" she asked. The shift in subject disarmed Hawke momentarily. "Lord Altrada is the owner of the largest shipping company in the Free Marches," Leandra continued. "Forty percent of Kirkwall's cargo travels on an Altrada ship. They have twenty seats on the port regulation board." Leandra stirred more milk into her coffee. Hawke didn't say anything; she was listening, for once. "When I see you and Vincent together, I don't see a handsome young couple gallivanting at parties and cooing pet names for their own amusement. I see a husband who controls the port and holds sway over the magistrates and a wife who carries clout with the Guard and the Viscount's office. I see a couple with the political and material influence to push back against the Order's hold on this city. And I see… what was the word Vincent used?" She lifted her cup, considering.

"Insurance," Hawke said quietly.

Leandra nodded. "My youngest daughter is in the Circle. I want insurance."

"Is that why you picked him?"

"I thought you would like him. But yes, that did factor into my choice. Marian, don't fool yourself. Vincent is a catch. He has many options and he won't wait forever. If you don't agree to marry him, any number of women will gladly vie for the privilege. If they see you without a ring they will sharpen their claws." Hawke felt a twinge of jealousy and frowned at the unexpectedly possessive reaction. Leandra noticed. "Even when you were a child, you hid from your own feelings." Her voice softened. "We uprooted you too much when you were young. We had no choice."

"You're putting me in an unfair position," Hawke said, nettled by how reasonable and sympathetic her mother sounded. She suspected she was being maneuvered.

"What's unfair? My choice to push you to embrace the potential I know you have? Or your choice to willfully ignore your growing influence in this city, play the brigand, and carouse? Honestly, Marian. Is that what you aspire to be? A common blade that runs errands for a handful of sovereigns? Is that what your father would have wanted for you?"

This characterization stung. "Father would have wanted me to be happy. He certainly wouldn't have pushed me into marriage."

"You don't think Vincent will make you happy? Perhaps you should let him try. He's the one you're actually courting, lest you forget."

"Mother," Hawke said, coloring. "You don't know anything about that."

"Marian, a mother knows," Leandra said. "Why you've chosen to give yourself to that cad—"

"He's not a cad!" Hawke snapped, and was surprised again by the emotion that welled up, this time to a word she herself had once used to describe Cullen.

Her reaction drew an annoyed frown from her mother. "You may pretend you don't know what kind of man he is, but I won't."

"You don't know him," Hawke said.

"He arrested my daughter and he takes his marching orders from Meredith Stannard. I know enough," Leandra said, allowing anger to color her voice for the first time. "Honestly, Marian, after all the years we've spent running from the Order, how could you allow yourself to get involved with the templar who arrested your baby sister? I've asked myself again and again what impelled you to be so stupid and reckless and I can come up with no answer. What can you possibly hope to gain by letting that man touch you?"

Hawke tolerated a lot of things, but being called stupid by her mother was not one of them. Her intractable pride rose to the occasion. Without thinking, she said, "Insurance."

Silence fell over the breakfast table. Hawke briefly wrestled with the admission, but was forced to accept the truth of it. Yes, she was attracted to him. Yes, he was exciting to be with. Yes, she liked him. But he also had power and influence and he was in a position of authority over her sister. Perhaps it was the Amell in her that was drawn to that power, saw an opportunity, and seized it.

"Will you influence him?" Leandra asked. "Or will it be the other way around?"

Hawke had an uncomfortable gnawing sensation in her gut. She had not kidded herself into thinking her relationship with Cullen was some doe-eyed romance, but she had not been completely honest about her own motivations, either. She was unsettled by the subconscious calculation that had emerged. Before, she had agreed to work for the Order in an effort to secure Cullen's favor and buy protections for her sister. Was their sexual relationship an extension of that? Did she have a subconscious expectation that sleeping with the Knight-Captain would earn her favors? If she were being completely honest, the answer was yes—she did expect Cullen to take special care of her sister. She did expect him to modify his behavior now that they were sleeping together. It was an unhappy realization.

Leandra drank her coffee as she watched warring emotions chase across her daughter's face. "You'd better wrap that one tightly around your finger, if you intend to use him. I hope you know what you're doing."

"_Maker_, mother," Hawke said, on the brink of tears. "Why are you doing this?"

"Because I love you, and I don't want you to go into a decision like this with your eyes shut. You used to be so decisive, so certain of your purpose. Ever since you returned from that expedition you've dithered. You're so talented and strong, you've such an eye for business—Marian, you could do _anything_ and this is how you choose to spend your time and energy. A dalliance with a templar. I'll never understand it."

Hawke crossed her arms. "Is this the part where you tell me what to do with my life?"

"No," Leandra said, surprising her. "You know my feelings on the matter. You have to live with your decisions. But you need to consider what you're throwing away if you turn your back on Vincent and you need to consider what being with a man like the Knight-Captain really means."

After Leandra left and the plates were cleared, Hawke replayed the conversation in her mind. Her mother was right about one thing: she was dithering. Before, she'd been motivated by Bethany's safety and the belief that if she gained enough influence and wealth her sister would no longer need to hide among the shadows. After the arrest, Hawke found herself adrift and uncertain. She'd made investments in property and mining ventures that increased the family's wealth, but she persisted in taking risks on mercenary work for petty coin. She was no longer as driven as she'd once been. She kept returning to Flemeth's words, hoping to glean some clue about her path, and this was dithering as well. Once again, she was looking to someone else for the answer when it was her responsibility to crack open all the little locked boxes and peer inside. Indeed, with this revelation she was on the cusp, the keys dangling within an arm's length, and yet—

She could not reach. Not yet. She wasn't ready.

Hawke arrived early for her meeting with Cullen, knowing the subject of the Rising Hawk must be broached and hoping he hadn't heard about it second-hand. As with her mother, she'd prepared certain pleasantries to soften the conversation: a light brush of rouge, a dab of the cedar oil, and a dress that she knew he favored. She rehearsed the conversation in her mind, each time with the sinking realization that she wasn't sure how he'd react.

Cullen arrived later than usual in dress uniform and looking harried, which meant he'd had business at the Keep. When his eyes fell on her his expression brightened and she was rewarded with that particular smile of his. Today, however, the smile only made her uneasy.

"Good afternoon," she said. His reply was to urge her onto the bed. She felt a slight tremor in his hand when he rested it on her thigh, but in a moment it passed. "We could go to the shore," Hawke suggested, as he knelt between her legs, nudging them apart. "I'll get a frock. We can walk on the beach. I'll get the frock wet. You can take the frock off…" She'd hoped to have some time to work up to this conversation, but he was intent on the task at hand.

"For me, messere?" he asked softly, smelling the cedar oil. His breath was warm on her cheek, causing her heart to race distractingly. He nipped gently at her ear.

"I need to tell you something," she said quickly. He paused. "Have you seen the new Altrada ship at the west dock?"

"Yes," he said, still at her ear. The ship was visible from the balcony.

"Vincent named it the Rising Hawk," she said. Cullen's grip tightened on her thigh. He pulled back, his eyes automatically dropping to her hand. "We're not engaged," she said. "He asked me to consider marriage and we've discussed it to some extent, but I'm not the marrying type."

Cullen's eyes met hers. The mask was in place. "I was under the impression you were with him to appease your mother," he said. "I thought it wasn't serious."

"It's not serious. Not like that."

"He named a ship after you. He's asking about marriage. Obviously it's serious to him."

"No, it's just business," she said, hoping to reassure him. "It doesn't mean anything. It wouldn't affect our relationship, even if he and I did get married. We could still see each other."

"Marriage doesn't mean anything?" he repeated, as though he did not understand.

"It's a business arrangement," she said.

"And now you suddenly say you're not the marrying type," Cullen said curtly, rising to his feet.

She blinked. "I don't recall ever saying I was interested in it. I've never had any intention of marrying anyone."

"When were you going to tell _me_ that? When I was down on one knee?" His voice was steadily rising.

Hawke stared at him, completely taken aback. She was unaccustomed to his anger and it unnerved her. "Cullen," she said. "You've never given any indication—"

"Marian, what do you think we're doing? What exactly do you think this is?"

Annoyance cut through her surprise. "We rendezvous in an inn outside town to have sex, Cullen. That's not a courtship. Considering the way this started, and the fact that you're a _templar_, I'd be an idiot to assume marriage was even on the table."

This flustered him,distracting him from his anger. "When I asked you, when I wanted to woo you—you said you wanted something discrete. You said you were satisfied, I thought—I thought you preferred it this way, here, like this." Hawke opened her mouth to respond, but she had no idea what to say, and she shut it again. Cullen was still flustered. "You said I was the only one you needed. I thought that meant you were going to break it off with him. I thought—" His anger regained its foothold at last. His eyes darkened, his back straightening. "It doesn't matter what I thought. It's clear I'm merely a diversion to you."

"No, of course not!" she said. He'd spat the words out as if they'd been on the tip of his tongue for months. The little locked boxes in her heart rattled, desperate to release their contents, but she held back. "From the very beginning I tried to get to know you, I wanted to know you, and you always brushed me off. You never let me in! Don't act like I haven't tried to get to know you or that I'm using you!"

"You tried, I'll grant you that. You excel at prying in the guise of tiresome pillow talk. You're eager to discuss all manner of mindless trivialities, but when it comes to something important—something like _this_—you can't be bothered." His tone was patronizing, cold, and foreign. He had never spoken to her like this before.

Hurt, she lashed back. "Yes, it's all my fault. I'm the one who doesn't understand courtship. Cullen, there are days when we don't exchange two words before you're inside me. If that's how you courted women in the Gallows, it's no wonder you're confused."

For a split-second, the mask dropped, and embarrassment blazed across his face. He wrenched it firmly back into place. "Enough," he said stiffly, moving for the door. The conversation was over. She recognized the signs: his tensed shoulders, the furrow to his brow, the set of his jaw.

"And now you're storming out, like you always do," she said. "How can we ever know each other at this rate? How can you even think about marrying someone you don't know how to fight with? Maker, what do you want from me, Cullen?"

"We shouldn't meet here again," he said.

When the door shut behind him, Hawke fell back on the mattress and rubbed her temples to stymie the beginnings of a monstrous headache. She tilted her head to look out the window. She could not see the dock, but she could see the Rising Hawk's top mast and the striped flag with the Altrada family crest fluttering in the breeze.

Increasingly, Vincent spent most of his time in his office at Altrada shipping headquarters, which was located two doors down from the port authority. Hawke knew he did not like being cooped up in his office all day and had developed a habit of stopping by whenever possible, if only for a brief chat. After her argument with Cullen, she walked and wandered, lost in thought, and was unsurprised to find her feet had led her there. As she walked down the hall, she saw Vincent's office door was ajar and overheard his cousin Frederico's voice.

"—and I like Serah Hawke, I really do, but this is a mistake."

"That's enough, Fred."

"You're my cousin, and I won't stand by and let her hurt you like Marcella—"

"Fred, that's _enough_."

Hawke moved out of hearing at sat on one of the hallway benches. She waited. Soon enough, Frederico burst through the door, huffing. He startled when he saw her.

"Serah Hawke," Frederico said, bowing. "Good afternoon."

"Good_bye_, Fred," Hawke told him crisply.

"Yes, of course, goodbye, Serah Hawke," he mumbled, ducking his head and making a hasty retreat.

Vincent leaned against the door frame and took in her expression. "I see it's been a trying day all around." He gestured into his office, and Hawke rose and went. It was a cluttered space, stuffed with paperwork and crates and in a characteristic state of disarray. Vincent had a lone rickety chair at his desk, but Hawke eschewed it rest against a table pushed up against the wall that had stacks of paperwork on one end.

"Business trouble?" she asked.

"Business as usual at the Keep," Vincent said, leaning next to her. "How much of that did you overhear?" He'd rolled up his sleeves and flecks of ink dotted the fingers of his writing hand. Hawke was enamored with his hands—he had the elegance of a pianist, but the strength of someone accustomed to climbing and hauling lines.

"Fred's your cousin and he doesn't want you to get hurt."

"He has a kind heart," Vincent said.

"I thought your family liked me."

"They do. But Fred doesn't feel he was properly consulted."

"So I'm not the only one."

Vincent regarded her. "Touche, my dear," he said, the tension palpable. They fought rarely, but when they did, there was always an undercurrent of electricity between them. Hawke licked her lips and Vincent glanced at her mouth. That had happened before, too.

"I told you the truth when I said Marcella was Arlo's ex-wife," he said, lifting his eyes to hers again.

"No, you don't have to explain," Hawke said. "It's nothing."

"It's not nothing. I'm talking about marriage, the last thing I need is for you to think I'm keeping secrets from you. I neglected to mention Marcella was my fiancee because it was an unpleasant situation. The abridged version is I found her with Gus shortly before we were to be married. I ended the engagement and returned to Antiva. Gus left for Nevarra. Arlo kindly agreed to escort Marcella back to her parents' estate in Orlais, where she convinced him to stay."

Hawke frowned. He'd told her before that his eldest brother, Augustino, had died on a voyage to Nevarra. "Gus didn't make it to Nevarra," she said.

"Ah, so you do listen occasionally." Vincent smiled tiredly. "That quarrel was the last time I spoke to Gus, unfortunately."

"I'm sorry," Hawke said.

"It's the past. I wasn't trying to keep anything from you. It didn't seem relevant when you asked, as we'd only just met and it's all… such a tangled mess for the family." He ran his hand through his hair.

"Why didn't you rename the sloop?" she asked.

"It's bad luck."

"You don't believe in luck."

"I bear her no ill will. She evaluated the situation and decided to seek the bigger prize. I'll remember the lesson."

This was too close to what her mother had said about Vincent being a catch, as though he was a trophy fish to be reeled in. "You are not a commodity, Vincent. Rare or otherwise. You are a sodding person."

Vincent frowned. "My dear, I was being glib, I didn't mean to upset you."

"You don't upset me! Everyone else upsets me! You're not a thing to be won! You're not an insurance policy! You are kind and clever and hard-working and no one ever—"

Vincent cupped the back of her neck and pulled her in for a kiss. The sudden movement caused her to grab his arm for support. Her mind blanked. All she could register was the hot press of his mouth, the fleeting caress of his tongue, the gentle pressure of his hand against her neck. Abruptly, she thought of Cullen. She pulled away.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"We fought," she said.

It took him a moment to realize who _we_ was. "Oh. Are you all right?"

She could not voice the lie. She merely nodded.

"Ah, I see." Vincent nodded and stroked the back of her hand absently. "Can I still count on you tonight? It will do you good to get out. It could be a nice diversion."

Hawke sucked in a shallow breath. Dealing with the de Launcets was not her idea of fun, but she had already promised Vincent she'd go. "Yes," she said. "If that's what you want."

"Marian," he said.

"I don't want to argue." _Anymore today_, she amended silently.

"In and out, my dear, and then I'll take you wherever you like. There's a show, the Forsythes are—"

"What about you and me?" she blurted. "Why can't it just be us?"

"Of course," he said soothingly. "I've missed you too." Hawke sighed. Sometimes Vincent gave her the distinct impression she was being humored. Vincent, for his part, did not miss the weight in that little puff of air. "My dear, I promise things will settle down soon. I'm in the process of hiring two more managers. Once that's done, I can delegate some of the work. We can spend more time together—you and I, just the two of us." He looked out the tiny window. "We'll take a trip," he said. "Somewhere without small, dark offices and shipping manifests and magistrates. Somewhere with plenty of brandy."

Hawke's irritation waned. She ruffled his hair. "You work too hard."

He brought her other hand to his mouth and kissed it. "I hate Guillaume de Launcet," he confessed. "But Maker, the man stocks a sinful liquor cabinet. There's a Rivianne in there with your name on it, I think."

Hawke knew she was being worked over, but decided she did not care. "All right," she said. "Rivianne could be fun."

"That's my darling," he said, giving her a peck. "If you're there, I shall endure. All I need is you."

Leandra had been right about two things, it turned out. Word of the ship naming without an accompanying engagement announcement stirred new hope amongst Kirkwall's marriageable female population. The de Launcet party marked a low spot for Hawke, as the usual veiled condescension was markedly less veiled and small talk became something akin to a sparring match.

"I heard Ferelden is rather dirty. I suppose that's why you've such an interest in mines and pits and such? My father says you should trade in what you know."

"I visited Denerim once. Remarkably filthy city. But I'm sure the rest of the country is much nicer and more civilized."

"I understand you're a blade—oh, forgive me. Is 'warrior' the correct term? Such a fascinating hobby."

The crowning blow was dealt by Alegra Oran, the daughter of a textile magnate whom Hawke had sorely underestimated in terms of fang, claw, and spite. "Don't you own one of those great Ferelden mongrels? What are they called again?"

"Mabari," Hawke said. "And no, I don't." She'd always wanted a mabari but Leandra refused to have one in the house, knowing it would be the subject of ridicule.

"Oh no? I heard you had a big, scruffy mongrel in your bed." Alegra smiled. "Perhaps I'm thinking of someone else."

Hawke's hackles rose instinctively, but she smothered her instinct to bite back. "Perhaps," she said, and made a mental note of Alegra's vital spots.

"What woman wouldn't want a big, lumbering mabari at her heel?" Danette Highhall mused. "He could sleep in your bed, keep you warm, drool on your pillow, lick you." The women laughed as one, the sound tinkling and hollow, and Hawke added Danette's name to the increasingly long list of nobles deserving gristly favors.

"I can see the appeal," Alegra said. "I heard they perform admirably on command." She shrugged. "No one can begrudge such diversions."

Hawke didn't consider why this barb lodged so deeply or what the instinctive flash of protective anger signified. She slapped Alegra in the face. Hawke did not intend to hurt her, only to silence her, but she did not know her own strength. Immediately, blood welled at Alegra's lip.

"Parvenu bitch," Alegra murmured, covering her face. "Always embarrassing yourself."

Vincent appeared out of nowhere and neatly hooked Hawke's arm in his. "Serah Oran, that shade of red looks lovely on you," he said, and whisked Hawke away before anyone could utter another word. "We're going," he said, propelling her to the entry hall, and she nodded mutely.

"Vincent, I'm sorry," she said, when they were outside.

"These outbursts are no longer cute, Marian," he said. "You drew blood, what were you thinking? They'll never stop talking about this."

"I wasn't aware I needed to be cute for you," she said.

He stopped. "Marian," he said. "Don't try to turn this around on me. You struck that woman in the face, you left a mark. People will think you're a brute."

"So you're worried what people think of me?" she asked, in the same tone.

"Don't," he said. She put her hands on her hips. "You wanted one-on-one time? You've got it. You and I are going to have a drink and we're going to talk," he said. "In private. We're not going to do this here on the street." She didn't protest. They walked in silence to his townhouse a few blocks away. Vincent raided his cellar and offered up a nice Agrisio. He poured a glass for each of them in his study. He offered her a seat on the chaise longue, but she remained standing and drank her glass in one steady pour.

"My dear," Vincent said, slightly alarmed. "It's only a fight. We'll sort it out like we always do."

"I can't handle this," she told him. "Any of this."

Vincent took a drink from his own glass to buy a few seconds for thought. "Sit with me," he said.

Hawke remained standing. "I'm sorry, Vincent." She put her glass aside. "This arrangement isn't working for me. Maybe we should cut our losses."

He put down his glass as well. "Let's take a moment and talk this out. You mean a great deal to me and there are no losses, as far as I'm concerned. What has brought this on?"

"We spend almost all of our time at social obligations. I like you tremendously and I want to help you, but this is too much. I'm being pressured into things I don't want and I don't feel I'm getting anything in return."

"I've never pushed you to do anything you didn't want. Quite the opposite, in fact."

"Vincent, you named a sodding _boat_ after me in public in front of everyone. You know how I feel about marriage but you won't let it go."

That irked him. "It's a ship," he said, curtly. "And I told you—"

"You told me you've wanted your own ship ever since you were a boy. If that's true, you probably already had a name in mind, possibly for years. But you chose not to use that name, you chose to use the name of a woman your parents want you to marry. Think about what that means." Hawke had built up momentum since that morning and she was determined to use it. "You have a beautiful ship in the docks, you could sail away and have the life you want, but the ship is moored and you're staying here out of some irrational sense of familial obligation and that drives me crazy. You drive me _crazy._"

Vincent frowned. "Perhaps it bothers you because it sounds too familiar."

"Don't deflect," she told him, brushing off the truth of the observation as she always did.

"Deflection is your area of expertise, as I recall. You're upset and you're taking it out on me."

"No, I'm telling you something and you need to listen to me for once."

"You can end our arrangement whenever you like," he said, tersely. "That's your privilege. But don't blame your fear of commitment on me. I have been completely fair and honest with you."

This rankled her more than anything else. "You pressured me and you know it. I told you I wasn't ready for marriage but you didn't care. You weighed the options and decided to risk it. You knew how my mother and your parents would react. You knew I'd feel pressured. You thought I was close enough to the line that pushing me across it would be easy."

"That is untrue. I am extremely fond of you, Marian. I will admit that I did my best to clear any obstacles in our path, but I never tried to twist your arm or maneuver you, and I—" He caught himself. "Forgive me. I'm getting defensive." He sat and offered her a hand. After a moment, she took it and sat beside him. "You're upset about the ship and rightly so. I broached the subject of marriage several times and you brushed me off. When I was put on the spot I—well, I reacted. I reached for what I wanted. There was no malice in it. I want you. I want to be with you."

"Vincent," she said, reprovingly. She knew what he was doing. He was _diffusing_, as he called it.

"Why don't you want to get married?" he asked. "Why is it such a terrible prospect for you? You and I have courted our fair share. You know it's hard to find someone who understands you."

"You don't know me as well as you think."

"You think I lack perspective because we haven't slept together."

"I know we've said that marriage would be a business arrangement and a partnership, but I can't imagine how it would work without passion. No long-term relationship like that can last without some sort of deeper connection. It is an emotional commitment, whether we're willing to call it that or not."

For the second time that day, Vincent's kiss caught her off guard completely. It had an urgency that cut through all else, stealing her breath away. "Darling," he said. His kisses were remarkably soft for all the heat behind them, lulling her into a dreamlike haze, making her sigh. She curled her fingers in his hair. "We have a connection. Do you still need convincing?"

Hawke could not resist. "Perhaps a bit," she said.

"I would very much like to present my best argument…" he said, breaking away to press his lips to her neck. He drew back, resting a hand on her hip. "Stay the night," he said.

Hawke hesitated, her fingertips stroking the back of his neck. She licked her lips. "I need to think," she said.

"There will be plenty of time for that," he said. But he squeezed her hip and acquiesced. "It has been a rather trying day, hasn't it? Let me take you out tomorrow. Just the two of us."

"I'd like that," she said, grateful for the reprieve.

He walked her home. It was a comfortable stroll, her arm in his. When they reached the stoop, he asked, "Tomorrow then?" She nodded and he bent to kiss her. When she pulled away, he followed and kissed her again, in a haphazard sort of way, his hand unconsciously tightening on her hip as he drew her close, pressing her body to his.

"Serah Altrada," she murmured.

"Forgive me," he said, without a shred of contriteness. "Tomorrow."


	7. Chapter 7

Hawke rose early the next day. In Lothering, she'd risen early to help with the farm. In their early days in Kirkwall she'd risen early with Bethany to scrounge for work. These days, she rose early to visit the mines before the midday sun had time to bake the quarry rock and the winds had opportunity to stir the dust.

She heard the stuttering cry of an osprey when she stepped out on the stoop. The bird's shadow passed down the lane towards Lowtown. Hawke went the same way, stopping to greet several merchants in passing, and heard it again as its shadow flitted along the ground between the canopies and pavilions. Shortly after, she saw the bird at the crossroads leading to the docks. When she approached, it regarded her critically from its perch on the signpost. To the left were the docks and the forested mass of ships at port. To the right was the ferry, with the monolithic silhouette of the Gallows in the distance. She paused at the junction, wiping a trickle of sweat from her brow, and tilted her face, shielding her eyes from the sun with a gloved hand.

"What are you waiting for?" Hawke asked.

The osprey fluffed its feathers noncommittally, watching her with bright yellow eyes. It was a proud creature, she thought. A quiet, judging creature, unimpressed by what it saw. She felt an inexplicable prick of anger.

"Go on," she said, clapping her hands.

The osprey cocked its head, flexing its claws against the wood. The sharp beak parted, but it made no sound. It was an awkward, immature bird, the feathers at the back of its crown ruffled and askew, leggy to the point of being ungainly, clumps of feathers missing on its dappled breast. In her eyes the osprey did not fit among the other shorebirds—the pretty little terns with their sleek black caps and unblemished breasts or the handsome tropicbirds with their elegant tails and graceful wings.

Her anger magnified; all of her frustrations and anxieties coalesced in to a unhappy knot. "Go," she said fiercely.

The osprey gave a chirping whistle. The sound was unremarkable in its cadence, but to Hawke there was an undercurrent of indecisiveness and fear that resonated with her own. She instinctively looked to the Gallows, the looming shadow of her sister's cage, and one of the little locked boxes eased open. The key had been there all along, resting in the lock, waiting for the turn of a wrist.

The ferry bell rang, echoing across the port. The osprey reared, flapped its wings, and took flight. Hawke jogged down the lane as the bell tolled a second, final time. She nearly missed the ferry's departure, but managed to dart aboard before the ramp was fully drawn. She squeezed into the crowd of bodies.

"Full capacity!" the ferrymaster yelled, and Hawke called out an apology, ducked her head, and wormed deeper into the throng of merchants and fishermen and mercenaries and sailors, knowing from experience he wouldn't take the time to fish her out.

That was how she found herself nose-to-neck with Cullen. She kept low, pushing forward blindly, trying to find a pocket of breathing room amid the mass of arms and elbows and torsos, and he was the first person she couldn't wiggle past. She bumped into a familiar wall of plate and leather, but before she could look up or say anything, the ferry jolted, lurching away from the dock. She rocked into his chest and he gripped her elbow, steadying her. A moment later, she smelled the distinct, metallic tang of lyrium, stronger than it had been in weeks.

Hawke closed her eyes. When she opened them, Cullen was looking past her toward the docks. "I'm sorry," she said, in a low voice.

She wasn't sure if he heard at first, but his eyes dropped down to her. "You keep finding me, Serah Hawke," he said, his voice low in kind. He looked haggard. He had a thin parcel under his arm.

The return to his old formality sparked a fire in her belly. Before he could say more, she told him, "I want to see my sister."

"You know I can't do that."

"You're the Knight-Captain. What exactly can you do?"

He frowned. "Serah Hawke—"

"Don't you 'Serah Hawke' me. I want to see my sister," Hawke said, and she poked her finger against his chest plate. "Right now." She met his gaze unflinching. Finally, he gave a short nod and lifted his eyes to the horizon once again. The passengers packed in around them willfully ignored the display, not wanting to draw the attention of Meredith's second-in-command.

When Hawke and Cullen disembarked, they walked into Templar Hall side-by-side, their strides nearly matched; his were slightly longer, hers were slightly faster. He opened the door to his office for her and gestured to a chair. "Wait." He went to his desk and put the parcel aside. He jotted something on parchment, pausing mid-sentence to consider. He put it aside. He started another, finished it, signed it, and left without a word.

Hawke shifted on the hard seat and surveyed the room. She hadn't paid much attention to the furnishings on her previous visit. There was a massive bookshelf wedged into the opposite corner, filled with books on history, philosophy, and religion, all with boring titles. Cabinets, presumably filled with paperwork, lined the far wall. She might have missed the portrait altogether, but she stood to stretch and and saw it propped against a paperweight and several sticks of sealing wax, facing the desk chair. It was an ink drawing, well-creased and colored with age, of herself in profile. There was water damage to the edge and middle creases, suggesting it had traveled, perhaps folded in a pocket.

Hawke studied the likeness and found it remarkably accurate, right down to the tousled flip of her hair and the cheek scar she'd won in the Deep Roads. Thanks to her mother's diligence, and many applications of ointment over the subsequent years, the scar had now faded to a faint line. Somewhere in her heart of hearts, a tiny key that had long been fitted in its lock turned slightly. A moment later, the office door opened.

"Bethany!" Hawke had always been the bigger, stronger one, and she picked up her little sister effortlessly in a bear hug that was as constricting as it was loving.

"What happened?" Bethany asked breathlessly. "Cullen said everyone was fine, but—Is mother—? Or Uncle Gamlen?"

"No, everyone's fine," Hawke said, holding her at arm's length. "It's not like that."

Bethany shut the door. "I've missed you," she said, as they sat. "I wish I could write you. The Knight-Commander put a stop to it when she found out."

"You said you were fine, that you'd found your place, but I never knew if it was actually true or if they were making you write those things." Hawke took Bethany's hand, her gloved fingers curling protectively around her sister's slender, bare ones. "Do you want to be here? Because if you don't, I'll do whatever it takes to get you out. I swear it."

Bethany frowned. "I know you and mother don't agree, but this is my life and I'm at peace with it. You need to respect that."

"It's a cage, Bethany."

Bethany laughed humorlessly. "I traded one for another. Have you forgotten what it was like before? Constantly hiding, always worried about being caught, never able to go about or have friends or live like a normal person. At least here I can be honest about who I am."

"You can hardly live like a normal person in the Gallows," Hawke said.

Bethany searched her older sister's face. "You have to respect my decisions about my own life."

Hawke gave a little huff of frustration that might have been cute under different circumstances, but was merely irritating in the present context. "Anything can happen to you here. You don't have freedom. The templars control you. They can make you—" Hawke couldn't bring herself to say the word. "They can take away your autonomy."

Bethany gave a huff of her own. "I can take care of myself, sister. Believe it or not. If you'd bothered to take me with you to the Deep Roads, like you _promised_, you'd know that."

Hawke looked away. Their argument over the Deep Roads had been the worst fight they'd ever had. Thinking about it still made her uncomfortable, not only because she'd broken her promise to Bethany, but because she'd allowed her mother to have so much influence over her choices. "I made a mistake," Hawke mumbled. It was the closest to an apology she'd ever come.

"Yes," Bethany said shortly. "But I didn't. Knowing what I know now, I would have turned myself in, and sooner rather than later. I had too many questions—about myself, about the Maker, about my path… I didn't start to find the answers until I came here." Bethany put her other hand atop her sister's. "I won't lie to you. When I first arrived, life was difficult. They put me through the Harrowing immediately and it was horrible. Cullen was supportive and he made sure my letters got to you—I didn't appreciate how big a favor that was until I learned outside contact was forbidden. Yes, there are templars who abuse their authority, but I can take care of myself. I've made friends, some of them in high places. I'm rather good at all the little games they play here. It's the Amell in me, I suppose."

"Friends?" Hawke asked. Bethany had never had friends of her own, not even in Lothering. She'd always been too shy and reticent, too afraid of accidentally revealing her secret and endangering the family.

"Yes, Pol, Haden, and Odell, especially. I have my students. The First Enchanter is an amazing man and I'm lucky to have his ear. I get along with the officers for the most part." Hawke's skepticism was evident. Bethany sighed. "Why can't you trust me to take care of myself?"

"I do trust you," Hawke said. "They're the ones I don't trust."

"I know how to handle templars. Probably better than you do."

Hawke looked down. "Bethany," she said. "I'm with Cullen."

Bethany studied her. "I thought you hated him," she said finally.

"It's… complicated," Hawke said. "Please, I just…"

"You want my blessing?" Bethany asked. "You make decisions about my life for me, but you want me to validate yours? Oh, sister."

Hawke frowned. She'd forgotten how perceptive Bethany could be. "I never meant this to happen," Hawke said. "And I feel so stupid and childish for needlessly complicating everything, but it's too late, it's how I feel. I know I'm a fool, but I can't wish it away or make it different, it's gone too far now."

Bethany softened. "You're not a fool."

"He's the Knight-Captain," Hawke said. "Mother will never forgive me. And you… Maker. What was I thinking?"

"Well, you weren't thinking with your head," her sister said, gently.

Hawke looked at her hands.

"In the beginning, when I had no one else, he was there. He tells me how you and mother and Uncle Gamlen are doing. It's made all the difference, hearing about you, about how far you've come. It won't be easy, but… taking the difficult path, or an inadvisable one, doesn't necessarily mean you're a fool. Not if you're willing to get to the end of it. If I get to make my own mistakes, you should get to make yours."

There was a gentle knock at the door. Likely Cullen, reminding them that they were on borrowed time. Hawke tightened her grip, not wanting to let her sister go.

"It will be all right," Bethany said. "Whatever you decide, you will make it work." Hawke shook her head. "I know you will," Bethany said. "Cullen told me about Vincent and he had nothing but good things to say. You two can have a wonderful life together, I just know it."

Hawke hugged her sister fiercely. "I've missed you so much," she whispered. "I've wanted to talk to you about so many things."

"I've missed you too," Bethany said. They held each other until a second, gentle knock brought the reunion to an end. Bethany opened the office door and spoke to Cullen and he replied, but their words were muffled. Hawke was lost in thought. She glanced up when Cullen entered.

"Thank you," she said, rising.

"You're welcome," he said.

She looked at him, hoping to penetrate his depths, and found it wasn't as difficult as she'd once supposed. Under the polite formality, she recognized shades of uncertainty, worry, and nervousness.

"Serah Hawke," he began, and paused. She waited. He went to the desk, grazing the parcel with his fingertips before handing it to her. He must have intended to deliver it to her that morning, but changed his mind on arrival and decided to take the ferry back to the Gallows instead. She tore open the heavy paper and found a simple white, cotton beach frock, mid-thigh in length, with flowers embroidered on the hem. It was so Ferelden. It was so _Cullen_. Once again, the little key turned, and this time she felt it—a tightening in her chest, the slightest constriction of her heart.

"I don't—" he began, and let out a soft breath. Hawke lifted her eyes to his, her fingers tracing the frock's carefully folded edges. "I can't go back to the way things were. I don't want it to be—only that." He paused. "You asked me what I wanted from you." He took her hand, a slight tremble in his fingers. His instinct was to look away, but he held her gaze. "I want to know you." He hesitated again. "I want to know how to fight with you."

She squeezed his hand, and the tremble stilled. "Marriage is not something I'm ready for," she said. "I can't promise that it ever will be."

"I don't need that." He swallowed. "I only need you. I want you in my life. Right now." He clasped her hand in both of his. "I know I'm not—I'm not easy to know, or be with, and I know you're under pressure, I know all that, and if you don't want that type of relationship with me—" He did glance away then, but only for a second. "I need to know you. If you'll have me, messere."

One of the little boxes sprang open. Hawke grabbed him by the neck and pulled him down for a kiss. He was startled by the sudden movement, but met her lips with a heat and intensity that seemed to strip the armor between them bare. At once, a gauntleted hand was in her hair, and another was at the small of her back, drawing her to him, holding her firm. She parted her lips, and he tasted her with a fervency that made her body thrum.

A recruit hurried into the office. "Knight-Captain, we've got orders to—"

Cullen broke away long enough to say, "_Out_," and the recruit stammered an apology and retreated. He resumed the kiss, or tried to, but Hawke was unable to contain the giggle that welled up. She felt him smile. "Will you go to the shore with me, messere?" he murmured.

"Yes," she replied, clutching the frock tightly in her armored fist.

He walked her to the ferry, their steps matched as they crossed the stone courtyard. He offered a hand, steadying her as she boarded the boat, and kept it there, outstretched, until her fingers slid away from his. She found a place to stand among the throng, and when she turned back, it seemed to her that the gait of his retreating form was lighter than before.

The same instincts that led her to the ferry and Cullen led her to the docks and Vincent. They hadn't gone sailing in some time, but the Marcella was prominent in her mind, and when she went to the docks, taking a slight detour on her way to the estate, she found him rigging the sloop for departure. Vincent waved to her from the deck and offered her a hand when she crossed to meet him.

"Careful, darling," he said, as she stepped up onto the boat.

"Going sailing?" she asked.

His eyes fell on the frock, which she'd folded and tucked under her arm. "I was going to ask you to come with me."

"I like sailing," she said, in a reminiscent way.

Her tone was not lost on him. "I know," he said. "You told me that. We should go more often." He fished an orange out of a crate of provisions and held it up between thumb and forefinger, his eyebrows raised in question. She nodded. He sat, peeling the orange, and after a moment she sat beside him, stretching out, letting the breeze cool her face.

"I thought about what you said last night." He sectioned the fruit. "I don't agree with all of it, but you had a few valid points." He handed her a slice. "One or two, at any rate," he added dryly.

"I oversimplified your position," Hawke said, a little embarrassed. "You can't just sail away."

"I admit I liked entertaining the idea," he said, popping a slice into his mouth. "If only to pretend I had options outside of that dark little office. But I have to be honest with myself. I'm not going back to Antiva to start over. That time is past. I need to move forward. You were right, part of it is out of a sense of familial obligation, but in truth… I like what I do, for the most part. I'm good at it. I've had my fill of rusty cutlasses and scurvy." He sucked a drop of juice from his thumb and Hawke's gaze was automatically drawn to his mouth. He smiled at her. "Darling," he said affectionately.

She sighed, averting her eyes.

"There's a spark there," he said. "You know there is."

"Vincent, I'm sorry."

"We can make this work," he told her.

"I know," she said. "But it's still a life where I don't fit."

He hooked the front of her plate and pulled her in for a kiss. He tasted like brandy and orange and she lingered. When he pulled back, he said, "Seems like a good fit to me."

"It's not just about us."

Vincent took another slice, then thought better of it and handed it to her. "I want you to be happy," he said, finally. "I wouldn't call him a friend, but I respect him, and I know he's important to you. I said you could still be with him, if that's what you want, and I meant it. It was my idea from the start and it works for us. I want this to work."

"It's not just about him, either," she said. "It's about the whole life, everything that goes with it."

"I've been thinking about the day we met," he said. "If you'd shown up on time, perfectly pressed and polite I probably wouldn't have given you a second thought. But you were late and rumpled and flushed and so keenly interested in pirates… You didn't give a damn about impressing anyone and you were so vivacious." He handed her another slice. "That's what drew me to you." He leaned back, dangling his hand over the side of the hull. "I could craft an extremely compelling argument for marriage and I could add any number of incentives to sweeten the offer. But I remind myself you're a woman who wants to fly into the sun."

"It sounds so childish when you say it," she said quietly.

Vincent fell silent for a moment, his brow furrowed in thought. "Why do you refuse to confront the future? Do you believe everything you have will inevitably be destroyed? That's the lesson of Lothering, isn't it? Nothing lasts." Hawke felt warmth beyond the heat of the sun. She shifted in her armor, turning her face fuller to the breeze, but found little comfort in it. "The farm was supposed to be home, your parents promised you it would be, they promised there would be no more running, and then it was razed to the ground by an army of darkspawn."

Somewhere, deep inside, another key began to turn. "You think you know everyone," she said.

"I know you. I know you can't bear to build another home only to have it burn." Again, the key turned.

"Maybe I just don't want to marry you, Vincent," she said, harsher than she'd intended.

She caught the barest flinch, but it was gone in a second. "Maybe," he said, his voice neutral. "Ships are my expertise, but I know a few things about houses, too. If the foundations are solid, the walls will stand firm. If the foundations are damaged, you will never be able to keep walls up, let alone put a roof over your head." He met her eyes. "Some things are beyond repair, Marian."

"That's not true," she said, her hold tightening on the frock.

"We've made mistakes and we'll continue to make them," he said. "I broached the subject of marriage several times and you brushed me off and I thought you were being coy. You weren't frank about your fears. Perhaps that was your mistake. I allowed my desire to be with you to cloud my judgment and I named the Rising Hawk publicly, without consulting you, and you felt pressured. That was my mistake. But I know we can make it work." He took her hand. "I will never walk out on you. I will never abandon you. Whatever challenges we face, we will work through them. If our home burns, we will rebuild it, as many times as it takes. We will last, our houses will stand after we're gone; I can promise you that. Can he?"

"I'm sorry, Vincent."

He frowned, confused and—for the first time since she'd known him—uncertain. "You're really ending it," he said. He sounded like he was unsure whether to be angry or disappointed. The Marcella rocked, waves lapping the hull. Weeks before, Hawke would have harbored some doubt and that uncertainty might have been enough to sway her to reconsider. But now, as she thought of the small portrait on Cullen's desk, carefully creased and stained with sun and sweat, she knew her answer. "Yes," she said.

She braced herself for a fight, expecting him to dig in tenaciously and drive a hard bargain as she knew he could. For an instant, she saw it: the gleam of competition, of ambition, of challenge. Vincent didn't like to lose. "Marian, you can't—" He stopped. He shook his head. He sighed, looking out over the bay. There was a hint of resignation in it that she understood. He wouldn't attempt to draw blood or excavate further. Negotiations were closed.

"I'll miss you," she said.

"You don't have to," he said finally. "Do you remember what I said?"

"No hard feelings."

"I meant that too," he said, and he gave her the last slice of the orange.

Cullen was clean-shaven and wore simple, well-tailored clothes that complimented the breadth of his shoulders and his stature. Hawke wore the beach frock, which fit perfectly. They did not touch as they walked, but they were clearly together.

They went to a private cove nestled away from the bustle of Lowtown. It was a favorite spot of his. They commandeered a blanket from a vendor who was closing shop, along with sundry street foods, which were disposed of in short order, and they strolled down the path leading to the cove. The little beach was private and quiet, sheltered by cliffs and occupied only by crabs and the scraggly vegetation that dominated the Wounded Coast. There were a few trees by an outcropping of rocks and these provided ample shade from the evening sun that occasionally broke through the clouds.

Cullen spread the blanket in the shade and they abandoned their shoes to stroll along the shore. When the sun dropped lower they found their way back to the blanket, where they were content to watch the slow lap of the waves. Cullen leaned back on his elbows, his shirt slightly open. For the first time in weeks, there was no furrow to his brow. Hawke took his hand and asked the thing she'd wondered most about.

"You're quitting lyrium, aren't you?"

Cullen watched the white crests rolling endlessly onto the shore. "We call it, 'scattering the dust.'"

"What made you decide to stop?" she asked.

"There are decisions I have to make. It will help." He tracked a gull with his eyes. "They dose after dinner to encourage us to return to the Gallows every night." He stroked her wrist absently with his thumb in a slow, circular motion. "That's not where I want to be at the end of the day."

"Is it hard?"

"Yes. Stability is important. Knowing you would always be there, at the room, was important." He turned, still holding her hand. "I need to ask you for something."

"Name it," she said. He leaned close, but hesitated. "It's all right," she said.

He kissed her. They hadn't gone without each other very long, but both felt the absence. He pushed her back against the blanket in the sand, and she wrapped her arms around him. When he broke away, biting her neck hard enough to leave marks, she managed to say, "You have to ask me with words," over the pounding of her heart.

He sighed and pressed his face against her neck. She'd grown so accustomed to the feel of his stubble she was almost startled by how smooth his skin felt. He kissed her neck, and it was different this time, disciplined. He kissed her again, moving slowly up the column of her throat, each press of his lips controlled and restrained, but with an underlying pulse of passion, insistent and demanding, just below the surface.

She hummed beneath him. She ran her hands over his body, along his arms, down his chest, mapping his contours in her mind, and he didn't stop her the way he normally did. She memorized his lines and curves and planes, all the way down to the flat of his stomach and his hips, and when she began to unfasten his trousers, again, he didn't stop her. Instead, he mirrored her actions and reached under the frock, tugging her smalls away. She slid her hand under his trousers and made a noise of appreciation at what she found. She stroked him, luxuriating in the heat and length against her palm, and he momentarily lost his fine edge of control. His kisses became searing for a brief moment, and then he forced his passion back through the sieve of restraint. She gasped as he trailed his fingers through her curls and wetness, stroking lightly, making a noise of appreciation of his own.

It was a different sort of intimacy and it sparked a different kind of fire—one that burned low and smoky, suffusing her body. She'd harbored a secret fear that their intimacy would always revolve around restraints and domination and she was relieved by this kind of touching. There was something about the way he rode the line of restraint, holding back—but only barely—that caused warmth to blossom in her belly. She kept stroking him, savoring every bit of his heat, his silkiness, his hardness. He dipped a finger between her legs, rubbing, making her hips buck. She shuddered against his neck and his cock twitched powerfully in her grasp. He seized her hand and pressed it into the sand at the edge of the blanket, twining his fingers in hers.

"Do you want me, messere?" he asked, settling between her legs.

"Yes," she said. He eased into her in a very slow, controlled way, taking his time, stretching her, making her arch, watching her lashes flutter. When he was fully sheathed inside her, he stilled. Her breath caught. "I want to be the only one you let inside you," he whispered against her neck, his breathing heavier. He kissed her, again with that softness borne of restraint, and gently rocked his hips.

"Oh," she breathed, powerless. She tried to say more, but failed. Soon, she was lost in his ebb and flow. He found her other hand and pinned it in the sand, the same as the first. He twined his fingers with hers, the same as the first. She caught his mouth, kissing him deeply, desperately. Each time she kissed him, each time she delved, she felt his passion well up, felt him wrestle with restraint, and she responded, moans rising in her throat. He bit at her neck, unable to stop the impulse, and the scrape of his teeth made her gasp.

"I want you to only moan my name," he whispered, and the possessiveness of it set off a chain reaction of tightening and squeezing and aching that went right to her center. She could feel the beginnings of climax rolling down her body, gathering power with each thrust. Her fingers tightened in his, urging him to push, but his thrusts remained steady and controlled as the friction continued to build.

"I want you to only come for me," he said, nipping at her earlobe, his breath hot on her skin, the rawness in his voice pushing her inexorably closer to release.

"Cullen," she moaned, struggling with a flurry of emotion. She tightened her legs around him, tightened her fingers in his, lifted her hips, sought to draw him in closer, deeper.

"Promise you'll only come for me," he whispered. It was too needy to be a proper command, but her body recognized it as such and obeyed. She climaxed, and his breath caught as her body clenched around him. He hooked his arm under her knee, pulling her leg up so he could penetrate her more deeply. His control unraveled, his thrusts increasingly hard and heavy and hungry, until he was pounding her beneath him, driving ragged moans from her throat until he claimed her mouth. When he came, he shuddered into her neck, his hand clamping hers down in the sand. She was still dazed and sensitive and tingling and afire when he released her leg and forced a hand between their bodies, stroking eagerly, then descended upon her with his mouth, pinning her hips to the blanket and consuming her until he summoned a second. She was drawn in again and again by his relentless tide and the churning of her heart, and when she finally washed ashore, she was happy and spent.

They lay quietly for some time, content to bask in each other's warmth and scent. He tugged her smalls back on, smoothing the frock from where it had bunched at her waist. He tried to brush away the sand and failed, and she giggled at the attempt and he smiled and she kissed him, and he returned it with that taunt undercurrent of power that made her toes flex in the sand.

"Did you mean what you promised?" he asked.

"You're a persuasive man, Knight-Captain," she said, still heady from release.

"Don't joke," he said quietly. "You asked me to tell you what I want. You can't hide when I do."

He was right. She considered it. He'd asked for an emotional commitment and she was on her way to recognizing her fears. But she wanted him to open up, to set aside his layers of plate and expose himself, and she knew she must offer up something of her own in return. She listened to her heartbeat, read the codes in its rhythm, and said, "Yes. I promise. Only you." He kissed her roughly, perhaps to disguise his relief. "When I told you I was courting, I thought you didn't care," she said. "You seemed indifferent."

"I didn't want to overstep my bounds. I assumed he would be gone soon, like the others. When it persisted, I convinced myself nothing would come of it."

Hawke's history of discarding suitors was joked about in Hightown circles, but she was surprised Cullen knew about it. "I didn't realize my exploits were so widely known," she muttered.

"I wouldn't say that." Cullen was suddenly very interested in the gulls. She let it go, propping up on her elbows so she could watch the birds skim the water.

"How did you know about the lyrium?" he asked.

"It has a metallic smell. One day, it was fainter."

"Lyrium perfume," he said. "I'm surprised you noticed."

"Why? I notice lots of things about you." She dug her feet into the sand and wiggled, feeling the grit between her toes. "When things are important you crease the folds. You only shave for business at the Keep. Or first dates. You like to watch the water, but don't like to be in it. You don't dot your I's." She paused. "Why don't you dot your I's?"

"Habit," he said. She waited expectantly and he relented. "We received a Chantry education at the orphanage. One of the sisters was tyrannical about penmanship. I began omitting the dots as an act of insubordination. She punished me each time and I persisted. Eventually, she gave up, but it had become habit, I suppose."

"Insubordination?" Hawke's eyes danced with amusement. "How did she punish you?"

He glanced away. "She had a belt." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Messere, please stop smiling."

"I think I've learned something about you."

"Perhaps too much," he said, looking a bit worried.

"I learned you're a rebel at heart, Knight-Captain."

That actually made him laugh. She liked the sound of it. "Trust me, messere, I am the last one to step out of line on any matter."

"You still don't dot your I's," she said. "You're scattering the dust. There's insubordination in there waiting to get out."

"Insubordination has no place in the Order."

"Insubordination always has its place, Knight-Captain," Hawke said, and she kissed him.

Leandra was not on speaking terms with her eldest. Hawke was unapologetic in her choices, but she wanted to smooth things over with her mother. She was determined not to let the argument linger and plotted accordingly.

"Mother, Varric and I wanted to show you something," Hawke said, cornering her in the great room late one morning.

Leandra affected a stiff upper lip. She had a soft spot for the entrepreneurial dwarf and knew that Hawke was using him to get on her good side. "Unless you've managed to fix your mistakes, and there's an Altrada family ring hidden somewhere in that ridiculous armor of yours, I doubt you have anything I'm interested in seeing."

"Lady Amell," Varric said. "I think you will appreciate this."

Hawke spread the property map on the table. "I went shopping and got a few presents," she said. "They were a little expensive, so Varric helped." She pointed to the new property acquisitions at the docks, clearly marked on the map.

Leandra glanced down and her look changed from willful disregard to mild interest. "You bought that parcel?" she said, pointing to the largest one. "That's prime real estate. How did you get it?"

"It was originally over two dozen parcels," Varric explained. "Slivers of land owned by Lowtown old-timers. They refused to sell to Hightown buyers or each other."

"We talked it over and learned they had some problems," Hawke said. "Fortunately, they were the kinds of problems we know how to solve. They agreed to sell to us." Hawke spotted a dab of blood on her gauntlet and discretely rubbed it away, but Leandra didn't notice—her eyes were locked on the map.

"That's zoned for docks," Leandra said.

"Once built, dock ownership would grant us a few spots on the port regulatory board which, as it turns out, is having some very interesting discussions with the Order about cargo regulations," Hawke said. "I know three seats isn't much, but I thought you could put them to good use." Leandra looked at her, and Hawke dropped her gaze to the map. "At least, I hope you want to put them to good use."

Leandra's face crumpled. "Oh, Marian," she said.

Hawke blinked. That wasn't the reaction she'd hoped for. "Mother, I—"

Leandra hugged her. "Marian, of course I love you. You don't have to do anything to make me love you, you're my daughter, I love you already."

"I knew that," Hawke said briskly. "I just wanted to remind you with a piece of expensive real estate."

"It's the gift that keeps giving," Varric observed, studying the map. "I'm sure Dapper will appreciate new blood at the meetings." Dapper was his nickname for Vincent.

Hawke caught her mother's eye. "Varric, could you excuse us?" When he departed, and they were alone, Hawke said, "I'm not asking you to like my decision. But I need you to respect it. I didn't make it lightly."

"Please tell me you wouldn't seriously consider wedding a templar," Leandra said, unable to keep the edge from her voice. She still harbored the desperate hope that her daughter would come to her senses and that Vincent would remain magnanimous and that one fine day all would be right in Thedas again.

Alas, too many of the little boxes had been opened in recent days; there were no keys at hand. Hawke said, "Of course not," so promptly that her mother inwardly cringed. Oblivious, Hawke rolled the map up tightly and tucked it into her belt without another thought.


	8. Chapter 8

When Hawke visited Cullen at the cottage the first time the sun was unrelenting. She came unannounced, walking leisurely along a scenic path that hugged the shore, and as she approached she saw progress had been made. The roof was mostly finished, the fencing was repaired, and the doors and windows were replaced. The path leading from the beach was swept and tidy piles of flagstone sat in stacks along the way, waiting to be fitted into the earth.

Cullen spotted her from the roof and climbed down to meet her. "Messere," he said, pleased. She was pleased, too—by the welcome in his eyes, the curve of his bicep under the weight of the hammer, the trickle of sweat that ran down the line of his neck, the patch of sunburn on his exposed upper chest, the flutter of his lashes in the bright light.

"Beautiful," she told him, holding up a hand to shield her eyes from the sun.

"There's work yet," he replied.

"I came to help," she said.

He glanced back at the cottage, wiping sweat from his brow. "It's hot, messere. I wouldn't impose on you."

"I want to help." His reluctance was evident. "I can handle it, Knight-Captain," she said, clasping the hammer with both hands. "Just tell me which nails to hit." He allowed her to tug the hammer from his grasp.

They worked long into the afternoon. Cullen did most of the heavy lifting. Hawke could wriggle into tight spaces and was better suited for working on the roof, which was not completely stable. She nearly fell through the rafters once, but she caught a support beam on the way down and hauled herself up unscathed. When they took a break to rest against the side of the house in the shade, Cullen offered her a flask of water he'd drawn from the pump. She was startled by how cold it was. She drank greedily, spilling water down her chin, and handed it back.

Cullen took a measured drink and rested the back of his head against the wall. "You work hard, messere."

"You're surprised?"

He regarded her. She crossed her arms. "You thought I was going to break something, didn't you?" He was still regarding her. "Is that why you never asked me to help?"

He took another sip and held the water, allowing it to cool his mouth. When he swallowed, he said, "I thought if I built a life on my own and offered it to you, you would accept it and I wouldn't have to compromise. I could have it my way and… I could have you my way, as well."

"Cullen," she said. He tipped the flask over his head, letting the water run down his face and neck, and swept back his wet curls. Drops beaded in his eyebrows. She watched rivulets wind their way down his neck, dampening his shirt, and said, "It doesn't work that way."

"I know, messere." He lifted the flask above her head and she nodded and he tipped it. She sighed when the cold water hit her forehead, tilting her head back as it flowed down her face, cooling her warm cheeks and sunburnt neck. "Good?" he asked.

"Good," she confirmed, blinking droplets from her lashes.

She continued helping over the weeks that followed and observed the cottage's steady transformation. Their own transformation was markedly less steady, but through all their squabbles and fights Hawke grew to know him. In spite of his stoicism, Cullen was surprisingly sensitive and would nurse hurt feelings for days. He was temperamental, prone to dark moods that seemed impenetrable. When he was upset, he adopted a condescending attitude that infuriated her like nothing else. But he also had a peculiar sort of sweetness, and when she caught one of his softer glances or the shy brush of his hand against hers, she recognized it as a glimpse into his true nature. There was an earnest romantic buried deep under all his layers of armor and she was only now finding the tools to dig him out.

For her part, Hawke still lacked introspection, was quick to anger, and employed a persistence that bordered on harassment. She insisted he attend her mother's social events and he doggedly refused, citing Gallows business, and the snubbing escalated to the point where Leandra was making offhand remarks that the Knight-Captain would not deign to be seen in her presence. He also refused to spend the night with Hawke, be it at the manor or an inn, and would not provide an explanation. These rejections became an increasingly sore spot for Hawke because she felt he was picking and choosing which parts of their lives they would share.

Nevertheless, in spite of their differences and the difficulties they faced, they enjoyed the days spent working on the cottage together. They fell into a routine of working in the morning and breaking in the afternoon. Cullen would nap in the shade and Hawke would take a swim, and when the sun began to set they would watch it together.

The last day they worked on the cottage together they made excellent progress and were in good spirits. When they quit for the day, Hawke went for a swim as usual. She walked along the water's edge, enjoying the lap of the surf against her feet, and eventually waded in, bobbing amongst the waves for a while before allowing the tide to bring her back. She went to the pump and rinsed the salt and sand from her hair. Cullen had fallen asleep on the beach nearby, an arm over his face to shield it from the sun, and Hawke crossed through the sea oats to rouse him before he got sunburned.

She touched his arm and he seized her wrist and kicked her legs out from under her in a single movement. She barely had time to grab the front of his shirt before he was on her, rolling her under his weight, slamming her down into the sand with his forearm against her throat. She was humiliated by how quickly he'd overpowered her and the sting went directly to her pride. He was obviously bigger and stronger than her, but it was one thing to acknowledge the physical imbalance and another to experience it, to feel the helplessness of being overpowered and know she was entirely at his mercy. "Cullen," she said, hating the tremor in her voice and the way the pressure from his arm made the word tight and hoarse.

He blinked and released her, turning away. "What was that about?" she demanded. He shook his head. She reached for him and he slapped her hand away. She recoiled.

"Don't," he said, his tone hard.

"Cullen, you—"

"I know what I did," he snapped.

She climbed to her feet, shaken. Sand clung uncomfortably to the wet frock and her skin, but she didn't bother brushing it off. She walked back to the cottage, trailing sand across the kitchen floor. The house was livable and sparsely furnished, but Cullen hadn't moved in. It still felt too open and empty to be a home.

Hawke found her work clothes in the untidy pile where she'd left them. She knelt and reached for the shirt, fumbling with the buttons, and noticed her hands were shaking. She closed her eyes and took a breath. She heard Cullen cross the threshold behind her. "You're impossible," she said, not looking at him. She gave up on the buttons and gathered the clothes to her chest as she stood. Cullen took her arm, pulling her around to face him, and it was another reminder of the imbalance between them. She jerked free of his grasp, dropping the clothes on the sandy tiles. "I'm not some rag doll you can throw around however you like!" she snapped, trying to shove him away. Tears pricked her lashes.

He had never confronted the prospect of her tears before. He tried to fold her into his arms, but she pushed him away. The more she struggled, the more he tried to hold her.

"I'm sorry," he said into her ear.

"Let go."

"I'm sorry," he repeated, and he tried to kiss her. "Let me—"

"Maker, Cullen!" she said, turning her face away. She tried to push him away, but his hold was too strong. She had a sudden, visceral urge to stomp on his foot. She shifted to get a better angle and he realized what she was doing and released her. "You can't just have sex with me and make it all better!" She tried to push him away again, but only succeeded in pushing herself away, which merely made her angrier. "Tell me what that was! Tell me why you did that!"

"Marian, that's enough," he said, in a warning tone.

"You have to tell me! You can't—"

"You don't get to make demands!" he snapped. "There are things you don't want to know about, Marian! There are things I can't talk about! I don't need your constant badgering!"

Without warning, she grabbed his arm and swept his feet out from under him. She caught him completely off-guard, and his posture was such that she sent them both crashing to the floor. Cullen took the brunt of the fall, but the jolt set Hawke's teeth on edge and she yelped when she smashed her elbow and knee against the stone floor. Cullen reflexively grabbed for her, but she was up and away, leaving him sprawled and extremely cross on the floor.

"Are you satisfied?" he snapped. "Is this how you expect to resolve problems?"

"_Badgering_? You threw me down on the ground, you sodding_ hurt_ me, and when I ask for an explanation you say I'm badgering you?"

"Perhaps harassment would be more accurate." His tone was humorless. "What do you want call it?"

"You only say my name when you're angry. You won't stay the night with me. You won't meet my family. What do _you_ want to call it?" She didn't wait for an answer. She stomped into her sandals and left. Partway down the path, she realized she'd forgotten the clothes, but was too angry to turn back.

"Wait," he called. She ignored him and kept walking. He caught up, falling into step beside her. She kept ignoring him. "Please put these on," he said, holding the work clothes out to her. "You can't go back like that."

"What do you care?"

"Look at yourself," he said, exasperated. She glanced down. The damp, semi-transparent frock clung to her chest and stomach, leaving nothing to the imagination.

"Is there a problem?" she asked, too irritated to acknowledge he was right.

"You're covered in sand," he said, in the same tone. "Your hair is tangled." He reached for her hair and she pulled away. He dropped his hand. "You're a mess," he said. He began fussing with the buttons on the shirt. "You—you can't be a mess like this. You have to pull yourself together." He briskly shook out the shirt and held it up. Hawke stared at him. He waited. Eventually she turned and slipped her arms into the sleeves: first the right, then the left. He began fastening the buttons, starting at the bottom. The buttons were small and he worked his way haltingly up her body. Hawke's elbow throbbed. She said nothing.

"When is dinner?" he asked finally.

"The party is Saturday at seven."

He looked at her. "I asked about _dinner_."

"Mother's _party_ is Saturday at seven. It's important to her, which means it's important to me, and therefore must surely be important to you."

He finished the button above her breasts and left the rest undone. "I'll be there," he said. He bent to kiss her and she turned her face. He kissed her anyway, a rough peck on the cheek, and his stubble scratched her skin.

Hawke visited the docks on her way home under the pretense of checking on the construction on the parcel she and Varric owned. On her way out, she stopped by the Marcella. The side of the sloop had been painted and trimmed since she'd last gone sailing with Vincent several weeks prior. The name, "Marcella," had been replaced with, "The Queen of Antiva."

She smiled at the choice and sat on a pillar by the pier. The sloop rocked, rolling with the familiar slap and chop of the bay. Gulls alighted on the waves. The breeze blew, ruffling her hair. The sun set.

Two days later Cullen showed up on her stoop in the middle of the night. It was the first time he'd come to the estate. When Bodahn woke her to advise the Knight-Captain was calling, she was so perplexed she forgot to put on a robe or slippers. She went to the door and met a pungent bouquet of metal, salt, and spice mingled with sweat, rust, copper and male. Cullen was shadowed in the lamplight and misting rain, but the smell of lyrium was thick on his breath and his stature was unmistakable.

"Come in," she said, and a gust of night air followed him inside. She checked her expression when she saw him in the dim light of the foyer. He was covered in bloodspatter laced with trails of sweat. His eyes were glassy. "What happened?" she asked.

He didn't answer. She took his hand to lead him into the great room and he pulled her close. His plate was hard and cold and his gauntleted fingers left smudges on her thin nightgown. She knew he would not want to be in her bedchamber for the first time like this. She said, "Come with me," and he allowed her to lead him to the study. She caught Bodahn's eye on the way and he brought a basin of water and clean towels and shut the door so they would be undisturbed.

She urged Cullen to sit on the couch and he complied with a clank. In proper light, he looked worse. His face was wan under the bloodspatter, his armor was grimy and slick with rain, and his skirts were soiled with mud, the edges singed.

"I should go," he said, without conviction.

"May I?" she asked, touching his right pauldron, and he nodded wearily. She had never removed templar plate before. It was an intimidating prospect; the armor had layers of unnecessary complications, buckles, and straps that seemed designed for the express purpose of making it more difficult for templars to disrobe. But she found her way, deft fingers slipping between leather and steel. She unfastened the wide support straps that anchored his pauldrons, then the neck guard. The armor was heavy, far heavier than anything she'd ever worn, but she was strong and had no trouble unhooking the interlocking pieces and setting them aside against the wall. She removed his gauntlets, the rich red sash and the heavy tassets that framed his hips, and finally, the chest plate.

She sat beside him and helped him peel out of his sweaty underpadding, unwinding the low sash from his waist, and gathered up the outer battle skirt. When she reached the second layer of skirts he stilled her hand. He averted his eyes, a flush rising on his neck. His hand was clammy on hers. She stood, intending to get the towels, and he embraced her around the middle, resting his face against her stomach. They stayed that way for some time, his breath hot through the thin fabric. She stroked his damp hair.

"I don't want to sleep," he said.

"I can wake you," she offered, assuming he was concerned about waking in time to report for duty.

Sweat began to bead at his temples and brow. She realized he was afraid, and the realization raised a cold prickle along the back of her neck. What manner of demon or dream could make a man like Cullen afraid to sleep? It occurred to her that whatever was happening, it had happened to him before, perhaps many times, and he'd endured it alone.

She moved to retrieve the water basin and the towels and he didn't protest. She sat beside him again and wet one of the towels, but before she could bring it to his face he began to smooth her sleep-tousled hair. As he worked, the tremble in his fingers subsided. When he'd arranged her hair to his satisfaction, he turned his attention to her nightgown, smoothing the wrinkles, rubbing away the grime he'd left with his thumb. His left hand drifted to her knee and rested there, seeking assurance.

"I killed mages," he said, keeping his attention on a stubborn smear of blood high on her stomach. He licked his thumb and rubbed in circles, concentrating. "I was confused. I thought I was killing the ones in Kinloch Hold again, but these were different mages. These were actual blood mages, not apprentices."

Hawke's breath stilled in her throat, but he didn't notice. She knew something terrible had happened while he was stationed at Kinloch Hold in Ferelden, but he'd volunteered very little information and she'd never pried. She reached up with the damp towel, wiping it across his forehead. He kept his attention on the persistent bloodstain on her nightgown. "Were you hurt?" she asked. She drew the towel down the side of his face, marking a clean path.

He laughed softly. "No," he said. "I'm very good at killing mages."

"I meant before."

The blood stain stubbornly remained. He stopped rubbing it. "Yes. But I was the fortunate one. They killed everyone else." Hawke finished cleaning his face and moved to his neck, scrubbing vigorously at the blood that arced diagonally from his jaw to his collarbone. She knew from experience it was the result of a carotid artery strike at extremely close range. "We were too lax," he said. "Much too lenient." His hand tightened on her knee. "We should have controlled them better. We should have disciplined them more harshly. They were far too dangerous to be treated like—"

_People. _She'd heard him say it before, when they first met: that mages couldn't be treated like normal people. She paused, the damp cloth still pressed to his collarbone, and her eyes met his. Cullen thought mages shouldn't be treated like normal people. He thought Bethany shouldn't be treated like a normal person.

"Why don't you hate me?" he asked.

"I couldn't," she said.

"Oh, I think you could," he said, with a humorless laugh. "Quite easily, if you knew me."

"I do know you."

"You don't know me, messere. You don't know what I've done."

"I know you right now."

He looked away. "I have nightmares," he said. "Terrible nightmares. I used to have them every night. Now, I only have them if something reminds me. I thought I was improving, but when you woke me on the beach—I was disoriented, you were someone else to me. I-" He shook his head. "I can't, I won't risk it. Harming you like that. Never. I would never risk it."

"I can take care of myself. I can wake you," she said. He lifted his eyes to her face. "You don't have to do this alone."

He took her free hand. "Marian, there are things I simply cannot tell you. Not because I want to keep them from you, but because I cannot speak the words. And even if I could, I don't want those words in your ears or your mind or anywhere near you. I don't want you to think of that when you see me. I don't want you to think, because of what happened, that I'm broken or—" He shook his head. "I need you to understand."

And she did. Knowing him did not require knowledge of the details of his past. She only needed know him as he was at that moment, filthy and partially undressed on the couch, her hand clasped in his, the weight of the Gallows resting in the furrow of his brow. "I will always want you in my bed," she said. "I will always want you every morning and every night. I will always ask for that. But I understand that you'll say no until you can say yes. I don't need to know why."

He exhaled quietly and they fell silent. When at last he squeezed her hand, she rose and lifted his chest plate from where it was propped against the wall, her muscles flexing with the effort. It was heavy, but not too heavy. She held it out to him and her grip did not waver. Her hold was solid. He took it from her, wordlessly.

She offered to search for clothes, though she was certain there was nothing in the house near his size, but he declined. She helped him back into his armor. She'd gotten the gist of the puzzle and they worked quickly and efficiently. The only hiccup was when she ducked to fasten one of his shoulder straps, and rose up again as he was leaning over, and they bumped heads. Cullen said, "Ouch," and Hawke laughed softly and he kissed her on the forehead.

When he left, it was drizzling again. He touched her chin as he departed. There was a noticeable limp to his gait, but his back was straight and his gaze forward. She watched at the door until he vanished down the road, out of sight.

Hawke was a better sport about parties these days and considered her attendance to Leandra's events to be a reasonable peace offering. She allowed her mother to talk her into a crimson gown that was ruched at the sides with chiffon and gold trim. It required Orana's rather considerable corset-fitting expertise but nicely emphasized her chest in proportion to her hips. She tamed her hair as best she could, painted her lips, and added a dab of cedar oil behind each ear. When Leandra gave her a nod of satisfaction, Hawke curtsied exaggeratedly, and Leandra rolled her eyes, and they were ready. Several of Leandra's close friends arrived early to start in on the best bottles of wine and Hawke drank and chatted amicably with them in the kitchen until the other guests began to trickle in.

Cullen arrived at seven o'clock exactly, clean-shaven and in the Order's formal dress uniform, immediately drawing interested looks. Unlike the Order's standard dress uniform, which had a distinct military cut, the formal uniform was designed to emulate Chantry robes and suggest a higher authority. Hawke took in the the rich crimson sash, the brocade skirts, and the gold outline of a sword of mercy embroidered on the gambeson, and had to admit it was an effective display, especially on Cullen. The uniform carried weight and power in its crisp creases and stark lines, and the smart cut and taper of the open jacket flattered his shoulders and build. She allowed a break in her conversation so she could ogle, earning a tiny sniff from Magistrate Dowell's son when he noted the source of her distraction. Hawke excused herself to greet him and Cullen did a slight double-take when he saw her. He'd never seen her in formal wear before, either.

"Messere," he said. His shoulders, which were straight and tense, relaxed slightly.

"Very handsome," she said, offering her hand.

"I didn't think you could possibly be more beautiful than you were the other night," he said. He brushed his lips against the back of her hand. "Happily, I stand corrected."

"Knight-Captain, I like that silver tongue. I hope you'll consider using it more often," she said, and he smiled. Oh, that tiny little smile. Please Maker, let it be a sign of things to come. Please Maker, let that tongue be put to other uses.

"Knight-Captain," a voice called, and both turned to see Magistrate Rickard gesturing animatedly. Cullen excused himself and Hawke dutifully made her rounds, greeting guests and making sure everyone was acknowledged. When the party was well underway, and Hawke was circling one last time to make sure she hadn't missed anyone, a woman with elaborately coiffed hair grabbed her hand and shook it vigorously.

"Serah Hawke! It is Marian Hawke, isn't it? Vini's told me so much about you! I'm Cicely Portera—please, call me Cici, everyone does."

_Vini? _Hawke 'd only ever heard Vincent's family refer to him as such. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Cici," Hawke said.

Cici scrunched her nose. "I know, I know, it's so cutesy, Cici and Vini, but Cicely is such a mouthful, don't you think? All those extra syllables, it's nonsense."

Hawke neatly swallowed her surprise. She and Vincent still spoke regularly, but he hadn't told her he was courting again and her mother hadn't mentioned it either. She searched her memory and recalled that the Portera family was involved in textiles and their sole daughter had been sent abroad to study. "Have you been in Kirkwall long?" Hawke asked.

"Almost a month. I'm still reacquainting myself with the city, things have changed quite a bit. I understand you're a warrior! What an remarkable calling!" Cici was still squeezing Hawke's hand enthusiastically. "I'm a bit of a rouge myself," she said conspiratorially.

"An archer?" Hawke guessed.

"Oh, I am, you've quite an eye! I trained for competition at university. I joined the archery club when I got settled back in, but…" She lowered her voice. "None of the archers here are very good." She wrinkled her nose again.

"The best archers I know compete for the purse at the Red Kaddis," Hawke said. "It's invitation only."

"I see." Cici's cheer deflated somewhat and Hawke inexplicably found herself eager to restore it. Such was Cici's effect on people.

"A friend of mine runs the tournament. I could introduce you. But I warn you, it gets rather cutthroat."

"Cutthroat?" Cici's eyes lit up. "That sounds marvelous! Oh, would you, if it isn't a bother? I'd like to compete. Vini says I have a fine competitive spirit."

As if cued, Vincent's voice rang out from across the room. "My dear?"

Both women turned, almost as one. The expectant looks on their faces were identical but otherwise they could not be more different: Cicily was petite, fair, and curvy, sporting an abundance of breast and hip that any hourglass would envy, while Hawke was statuesque, tan and small-chested, all legs with broad hips and strong shoulders.

Vincent and Cullen were looking at them from across the room. The latter straightened his shoulders when the women's eyes fell upon them and the former beckoned. The women crossed to them and introductions were made. Hawke had never seen Cullen and Vincent side-by-side before and noted the clear contrast in demeanor—Cullen's bearing was stiffly formal, restrained power coiled just below the surface, while Vincent was relaxed and at ease, clearly in his element.

Cici was immediately taken with Cullen. She made a delighted little sound when he took her hand. "Oh, my—forgive me, Knight-Captain, you seem quite strong! I can rest easy knowing a man such as yourself is keeping an eye on things. Are the other templars as handsome as you? I hope you don't mind me asking! I think the uniform is rather fetching, it would be a shame not to have handsome people wearing it."

Cullen turned a faint shade of pink. "I—ah, thank you, Lady Portera. You're too kind. You look lovely this evening."

"Oh, thank _you_! And polite, too!" Cici examined his hand, turning it over and running her thumb across his palm. "You must have a very big sword, Knight-Captain," she observed, in a way that was innocent and provocative in equal measure.

"I—" Cullen looked to Vincent for help, found only a knowing smile, and said, "I carry a longsword, Lady Portera."

"A longsword, you say? Perhaps you could show me sometime?" She smiled winsomely. "I can see you're a skilled swordsman. I daresay you could teach me a few tricks," she said, giving him an appraising look. Cullen visibly swallowed. Vincent hid his chuckle with a sip of wine. Cici skipped right along. "You're from Ferelden, aren't you? Ferelden is such a beautiful country, in my opinion! And so underappreciated."

Vincent caught Hawke's attention in the subtle language of gestures they'd developed during their courtship. They stepped back, leaving Cullen to fend for himself. "She's a natural," Vincent murmured. "There isn't a person in this room that can withstand the maelstrom. She instinctively knows the path to one's jugular."

"Does she know the path to yours?" Hawke asked.

"It took her all of a second to figure me out. She's a clever one. A shrew negotiator, too." He sighed contentedly. "Utterly ruthless."

"How did you meet?" she asked.

"She found me, by happy chance. She was studying abroad in Orlais. The Porteras sent for her with the intention of marrying her off to save their crumbling empire. When she disembarked, the Qunari and the Guard were having an altercation at the compound, as usual, and she took refuge in our offices, only to find beloved, frazzled Vini, working his fingers to the bone, covered in ink and wax, reeking of brandy and in sore need of good company."

"That sounds accurate," Hawke said, amused.

"Now darling, you know I would never spare my image at the expense of a good story," he said, sipping his wine. "Within five minutes, perhaps four, she had me wrapped around her finger. She found out I had a ship—which is to say I told her, because I desperately wanted to impress her—and I gave her a tour. She showed me her cargo. I showed her my cargo. The next thing I knew, she was negotiating a second Orlesian husband and a summer home in Rialto." He smiled indulgently. "And I told her, 'My dear, you've many negotiations to go, you mustn't drive such a hard bargain up-front,' and she said, 'If you want an alliance, Vincent Altrada, you'll have to earn it.' So naturally, I set about in earnest—I love this story, by the way." Vincent held up his thumb and index finger a scant inch apart. "I have only embellished this much."

"She's lovely," Hawke said, marveling at the serendipity of it. She'd become so accustomed to the arduous trial and error of the courtship process that she was amazed such compatibility could result from a chance meeting.

"Yes. Her family is absolutely wretched, but she's a delight. Thank the Maker for the Orlesian university system. I'll send all my children there so I don't ruin them." Vincent glanced aside. "Darling, you may want to intervene before Cici absconds with your templar. She's always wanted one. She likes the armor."

Hawke followed his gaze. Cici was clasping Cullen's hand in both of hers, talking earnestly, a pretty blush on her face, and Cullen was listening earnestly—a little too earnestly, truth be told.

"The Knight-Captain and I share a weakness for vivacious women," Vincent observed. The way he looked at Cici cheered Hawke, but also roused a whisper of regret. Vincent had looked at her that way once (and still did, to hear her mother tell it) but she could see there was something more behind the look now, something that hadn't been there when they were together. Vincent was well on his way to falling in love. Hawke was happy for him, but it tasted bittersweet. She hadn't appreciated how much she missed Vincent until they'd fallen so easily into their old, companionable routine, standing elbow-to-elbow at a party, like they used to, observing the nobility swirling around them, like they used to. For the briefest moment, she regretted that they hadn't been more, that she hadn't agreed to try to make it work. But her eyes drifted back to Cullen, and one of the little locked boxes rattled, and the moment passed. Impulsively, she kissed Vincent on the cheek.

"Darling," he said, squeezing her hand. Then, in a lighter tone, he added, "If she adds him to her collection, you can't say I didn't warn you."

Hawke looked back to the pair, decided he was right, and went to extricate her man from Cici's clutches. "So lovely to meet you both!" Cici called as Hawke steered him away.

"Lady Portera studied at Val Royeaux. She's a student of history," Cullen said, as Hawke maneuvered him through the crowd. "She offered to loan me several of Genitivi's less-circulated works." Hawke firmly linked her arm in his. "Messere," he said, with a ghost of a smile.

"Shut up," she told him. But before she could say more, her mother was upon them, swooping down in the manner of tipsy nobles at parties.

"Knight-Captain Cullen," Leandra said. "So good to see you. I was beginning to wonder if you ever had occasion to leave the Gallows at all. You must be frightfully busy. I don't believe I've seen you about Hightown in months." Her words had an undeniably hard edge.

"Lady Amell," Cullen said.

_Here we go_, Hawke thought, releasing his arm, and she was right. Leandra launched into a debate about the Order's recent attempts to change port regulations to allow Chantry search and seizure of all incoming cargo. Cullen held his own during this conversation, maintaining politeness without giving an inch, until Leandra abruptly asked, "How is my youngest daughter? I never hear from her, naturally."

Cullen transitioned smoothly. "Enchanter Bethany is well. Her students achieved high marks in the latest round of testing. She was excited about their progress when we last spoke."

"You speak often?" Leandra asked.

Cullen hadn't touched his wine until that point. He took a drink before he said, "Yes, several times a week."

"Tell me, does she enjoy her captivity?" Leandra asked. Surrounding conversations quietened as nearby guests took an interest. Leandra never evoked Bethany in public.

"Enchanter Bethany is an Aequitarian. She supports the Circle system."

"She supports being locked in your prison?" Leandra asked, and laughed dryly. "Forgive me, Knight-Captain, if I find that difficult to swallow."

Cullen's expression was neutral. "Enchanter Bethany recognizes the Circle is a necessity. She believes that magic is a power that must be cultivated in a structured environment."

"How fortunate for you. I can't imagine all your charges find the system so agreeable."

"I would not say she finds it agreeable, my Lady, merely necessary. She disagrees with the limitations of the apprentice curriculum and the banning of familial contact, as do I. She has successfully lobbied for some changes in the curriculum. She believes she can foster change from within."

"And you? Have you lobbied for change?"

"The Order is steeped in tradition. There are things are beyond my power."

"Surely the Knight-Captain has some power," Leandra said mildly. "You wouldn't put in a word for me, so that I may visit my youngest daughter? Our house has a long history of supporting the Order." Leandra glanced at Hawke and said, "I would think you would be sympathetic to our situation, considering yours." Hawke gave her mother a warning look and wondered exactly how much wine she'd had to drink.

"Any further discussion of visitation rights has been tabled, unfortunately," Cullen said, carefully.

Leandra seized upon the implication. "There has been discussion?"

"Not enough or too much, depending on one's point of view. I would do you no favors to bring it up again on your behalf, my Lady."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Knight-Captain," she said. Leandra's eyes were still cool and assessing, but the hard edges had been filed away. "I'm glad we had this opportunity to catch up. Perhaps we'll have more occasion to talk in the future. If you'll excuse me."

The void created by Leandra's departure did not last. Almost immediately, a young magistrate pounced, eager to wrench the discussion back to port regulations and try his luck sparring with the Knight-Captain. Cullen humored him, and the next, and the next. He handled public relations well for the Order, but clearly preferred to be elsewhere. Finally, they untangled themselves and retreated to the fringe of the crowd as the musicians switched over to a livelier set to encourage dancing. Hawke was on her third glass of wine, but Cullen had hardly touched his own.

"You think mages should see their families?" she asked.

Cullen took a sip. He still didn't like to discuss his work with her. "Stress leads to a loss of control," he said. "New arrivals are traumatized. They need stability. I argued regular visitation with immediate family would smooth the transition, but the Knight-Commander was not persuaded."

"You never said anything about this before." He didn't answer. She took his hand. "I want to show you something." A flicker of relief crossed his face. "Unless you'd like to dance?" "Messere," he said plaintively. Hawke suppressed a smile and led him down the hall and up the rear staircase to her bedchamber. "Is this what you wanted to show me?" he asked, nodding approvingly to the bed.

"I want you on those sheets, Knight-Captain," she said, shutting the door.

"That's all?" he asked.

That wasn't all, she realized. This was her space. She didn't just want him here. She wanted him her way. She wanted to be the one in control. She seized the impulse. "I want you to follow my rules," she said, and slid the bolt lock.

This earned her the small smile she coveted so. "What rules are those?" he asked, allowing her to steer him towards the bed.

"You say yes." She paused, licking her lips. "You obey." She wasn't used to giving the orders; her heart quickened. "You come first."

She wasn't sure how he'd react to the role-reversal, but his smile widened a fraction, his eyes glinting at the challenge. "We'll see, messere," he said softly. He held her gaze for a moment before adding, "Yes."

"Jacket off, Knight-Captain," she ordered. He complied, shouldering off the jacket, folding it and laying it to the side. "Sash," she said, emboldened, and he unwound the cloth around his waist in a practiced way, gathering it up neatly and putting it aside. She nodded to his gambeson. Again, he complied, loosening it at the collar and unfastening the buttons until he could shoulder out of it. "Boots," she said. He stooped and removed them, setting the pair aside, and straightened again.

Hawke licked her lips again and Cullen's eyes dropped to her mouth. "Skirt," she said, drawing his attention back to the task at hand. He reached for the clasp at the small of his back and waited. He was gauging her reaction, teasing her. "Off, Knight-Captain," she said firmly. He unfastened the clasp, but held it so skirt the hung low, revealing the line of his hip and the trail of hair that ran down his stomach. Hawke's eyes flicked down and back. He loosened his grip and the skirt slowly slid down his hips, falling into a crumpled heap on the floor, and her eyes dropped once again.

Hawke's stomach fluttered when she saw she wasn't the only one aroused by the display. Perhaps it was the purposeful way he undressed for her, or the little smile he flashed at every turn, or the fact that his cock stood hard and ready, or—or it was just _him_. Her raw attraction to him, every part of him, every scar and tan line, every sinew, never faltered.

Hawke's gown did not lend itself to quite the same level of theatrics while undressing so she didn't belabor the process. She reached behind to unhook the clasp at her neck and shouldered out of it. She pushed the dress down over the swell of her lips, wiggling as necessary, and let it drop onto the floor in a pile of chiffon and silk. Cullen's eyes flicked down to the corset, to her face, and back, exactly as hers had when he'd teased her with his skirt.

She laughed. "Do you approve?" she asked, stepping close enough for his cock to brush her thigh, knowing full well the answer. It was her favorite corset, pearl-colored, intricately strung and decorated with lace that matched her smalls. Cullen trailed his fingers down the boning, making her shiver inwardly.

She seized his hands, forcing them away from her body. His initial surprise quickly shifted to heat. "_Messere_," he said, with a growl that made her stomach stop fluttering long enough to do a flip.

"On the bed," she told him crisply. He obeyed, climbing into the mattress with a familiar, almost predatory roll of his shoulders and hips. It reminded her that he was still the dominant one. She was giving the orders, but that didn't mean she was in control.

"On your back," she said. He turned and settled down, propping up on his elbows. She kicked off her shoes, the terrible Orlesian slippers she routinely forced her feet into for these gatherings. She slid the smalls down her hips, letting them drop to the floor. She took her time climbing onto the bed and crawling up his body. When she reached his cock, she ran her tongue up his length and felt him move. She knew he still wasn't comfortable with oral sex because he never allowed himself to climax in her mouth and decided not to linger there. Instead, she straddled his hips. She rubbed against him, allowing him to feel her wetness, and wrapped her fingers around his shaft, giving a light squeeze.

"Do you like this?" she asked, stroking his full length, luxuriating in the feel of his warm, smooth skin in her hand.

His eyes smoldered. "Yes."

"Do you like how wet I am for you?" she asked, lifting her hips so she could lazily rub the head of his penis between her legs.

"Yes," he said. His entire body was tensed, his hips ready to close the distance.

"Do you want to be inside me, Knight-Captain?" She allowed the tip of his cock to penetrate.

He exhaled in anticipation. "Yes," he said. His voice was already at that tell-tale husky timbre. She decided it was the challenge of holding back and letting her take control combined with the spontaneity of sex in her home while guests (and her mother) were downstairs.

She guided him into her body, sinking down slowly. She lifted up, suppressing a moan, and settled down, enjoying the push and the fullness all over again. He gripped her knees and she grabbed his wrists, pinning them to the mattress. "Don't move," she breathed. "I'm the only one who touches." She rocked against him, humming. She could feel how tightly coiled he was beneath her, how ready he was to thrust to meet her. When he twitched inside her, she whispered, "You like to be ridden, don't you, Knight-Captain?"

He closed his eyes and she smiled to herself in self-congratulation, but her confidence was premature. "Do you come in this bed often, messere?" he asked, in a whisper that matched her own: low, suggestive, knowing. The question caught her unprepared and she flushed. She shifted her hips and his breath caught. She shut her eyes, trying to focus. She was in charge, not him. He would come first, not her.

"Do you think of me?" he asked. Immediately, all those nights of sticky fingers came flooding back to her. Oh, she'd thought of him. She'd imagined his mouth on her, his tongue inside her, his breath hot on her clitoris, his nose buried in her ass. She'd imagined him mounting her from behind, collaring and leashing her, spanking her, punishing her, making her beg and plead until he came inside her or on her body, until his seed ran down her thighs or ass or back or all three. She'd imagined him gripping her by the hair and thrusting into her mouth until his release was thick in her throat. She'd imagined being fingered surreptitiously on the ferry, writhing on his hand amid the hot press of bodies; of being leashed under his desk and ordered to suck his cock, receiving a yank of reprimand whenever her tongue wasn't eager enough; of being gagged with a stole and rutted in a stranger's closet with the door wide open; of being tied spread-eagle to his desk to be taken at his whim; of waking in the middle of the night to find him inside her, filling her, making her come. She'd imagined him taking her in every conceivable way, of being bound and tied and gagged and pleasured and licked and teased and bitten and whipped and fucked until her exhausted body surrendered every orgasm it could muster. She'd imagined him dominating her completely and utterly, controlling her, possessing her, claiming her, owning her. She'd imagined pinning him down and fucking him into oblivion. She'd imagined tying him up and kissing and biting and licking until he begged, of forcing his face into the mattress and stroking him from behind, of making his back arch with pleasure when she stroked him elsewhere. She'd imagined owning him, dominating him, controlling him, possessing him, pleasuring _him—_

Cullen's breathing grew heavier. She opened her eyes and realized she was riding him hard, her fingers locked tightly around his wrists, and he was very close to coming. Heat swept across her face as she recounted all the fantasies that had flashed across her mind. She suddenly felt shy, and even a little embarrassed, though he could have no way of knowing her fantasies unless she chose to tell him. She slowed the rock of her hips, sacrificing her newly-gained advantage so she could retake control. "Always," she said, pleased with how steady her voice was. "Often."

"Good," he replied. His voice wasn't as steady as hers, but there was a possessiveness in it that made Hawke bite her lip. Cullen let out a slow breath. He was marshaling his control. "Do you moan my name?" he asked.

The answer was, once again, always and often. She'd whispered his name to these walls more times than she could count. It was such a deeply ingrained part of the process that she couldn't bring herself to climax without it. "Always," she said, and felt him twitch inside her. "Do you think of me when you're alone?" she countered.

"Yes. However…"

She rocked steadily, waiting for an answer, and when she got none she took the bait. "However?" she asked, leaning close, moving slowly.

"I only come inside you, messere."

She temporarily broke her rhythm. The thought that he resisted all urges and temptations, that he never surrendered to the impulse, that he saved all of his desire, gratification, and release for her, was undeniably arousing, and it flattered the protective and possessive feelings she cultivated but did not yet acknowledge. It explained a lot about him—his virility, his enthusiasm, his interest.

"What do you do when you think of me?" he asked softly, and she felt a familiar heat building in her core, a warning of impending climax, as phantom fingers gently circled her clitoris. She swallowed, not trusting her voice, trying to keep a steady rhythm as she rode him. "Show me," he said. She reminded herself she was in charge this time, not him, and closed her eyes, willing concentration.

"Look at me, messere," he murmured, and she obeyed, but not without exerting her own will first. She settled slowly, prolonging the time it took for him to be fully seated in her. Instead of rising again and continuing the rhythm, she stopped and waited. His hands tensed under hers.

"Show me," he repeated, a bit breathier this time.

She was hesitant at first. He'd always been such a dominant presence in the bedroom, so intent on bringing her to climax himself, that she'd never had occasion to touch herself in front of him. She tentatively licked her fingertips, and when she saw the effect this had on him—the way his eyes locked on her mouth, the sear of his gaze—she was encouraged. She licked her fingers again, drawing each into her mouth, and allowed her hand to drift between her legs. The moment her fingertips pressed against her clitoris in that practiced way, a sigh escaped her lips. She'd never touched herself while a man was inside her. The press of his cock inside complimented the press of her fingers on the outside. She moved her fingertips in slow circles, a flush rising on her cheeks.

"Show me how you say my name," he said.

"Cullen," she whispered. Her body responded as it had been trained to and she shuddered, her muscles clenching.

"Faster," he said.

She quickened the circles. "Cullen," she said, unbidden, and shuddered again. He reached up, cupping her face, stroking her lips with his thumb, and she instinctively drew it into her mouth, licking, sucking, making him groan. He was losing control. She could see it in his eyes, feel it in the insistent press of his thumb in her mouth and the restlessness movement of his body beneath her.

"Again," he told her, his voice raw.

Her eyelids fluttered. "Cullen," she gasped, still sucking.

"Say I can touch you," he begged.

"Oh," she moaned. He was barely restraining himself. She could feel his hips shifting, desperate to thrust into her, to take her, to claim her.

"I want you. I have to touch you."

"Say my name first," she managed, somehow.

"Marian," he said, and she bit at his thumb. "Marian, Marian, Marian…"

"Oh," she moaned as heat ignited deep in her belly.

"Marian, Marian, Marian, please. _Please_."

The way he kept saying _Marian_ and _please_ was too much for her. She couldn't resist any longer. She surrendered. "Yes," she said. "Yes, Knight-Captain—"

He sat up abruptly, grabbing her hair, pulling her in to kiss him. His mouth was fire; she all but burned. She groaned, wrapping herself around him. "Marian," he breathed, thrusting hard. He slid his other hand around her back, crushing her against him, and she whimpered. "Say my name," he said. "Say it."

"Cullen," she moaned, lost in the pounding of his cock between her legs.

"Say it again," he whispered, his breath hot on her neck.

"Cullen," she whimpered.

"Who's in your bed right now?"

"Cullen," she moaned.

He said her name again, kissing her neck earnestly, bouncing her hard on his lap, making her gasp. "Who's inside you?" he asked, his lips at her throat, the scrape of his teeth pushing her closer to the edge.

"Oh—" She was at the point of inarticulation; single syllables were all she could produce.

"Who's making you come, Marian?"

"You," she said, drawing in a breath. "You—_oh_, yes, _yes_—"

"Who's making you come _right now_?"

She climaxed. His thrusts became erratic, his fingers tightening in her hair and against the corset, and when he came, his hips bucked so powerfully it forced a gasp from her. He fell back onto the bed, pulling her with him and she stayed locked in his arms, breathing audibly. He hungrily kissed her fingers, one by one, and drew the two she'd touched herself with into his mouth and sucked. Hawke's eyes fluttered shut and she added "fingers" to the list of things he needed to put in his mouth more often. He twined his hand in her hair and kissed her fervently, again and again. When he let his head drop back onto the pillow, she burrowed into the crook of his arm.

"You broke the rules," she told him, unable to let it go unspoken.

"I'm a rebel," he mumbled. Hawke giggled, a bit loudly, and covered her face. She was prone to the giggles after sex.

"Shhh," Cullen said, fighting his own chuckle. "Quiet, messere." Then, inspired, he chuckled again and said, "Who's making you laugh?" in the huskiest, sexiest tone he could muster.

Hawke gave a snort of laughter, the indignity of which only made her laugh harder.

"Shut up," he said affectionately, dropping a pillow over her face to muffle the sound.

When the shaking of her shoulders subsided, she pushed the pillow aside. "Is it true?" she asked. "Only with me?"

"Always." He was staring at the ceiling, deep in thought. "What were you thinking about?" he asked finally, a note of curiosity in his voice. He meant the fantasies. She squirmed and buried her face in the pillows again. He rolled over, trapping her under his arm and dragging her close. "Shall I guess?" he murmured into her hair.

"Maker, no," she said, muffled by the pillow, and wiggled her rear against him in an attempt to distract.

"I'm very good at guessing," he said, undeterred.

She lifted her face. "I was thinking about you coming down to breakfast tomorrow morning…"

"Messere," he said, combing her tousled hair with his fingers.

"Stay the night."

For the first time, he considered it. Really considered it. "Next time," he said, and she was content.

In the morning, Hawke woke alone in her bed, as usual. She breakfasted with her mother, as usual, and was preparing to go to the mines, as usual, when Aveline and Isabela arrived to request her help, which was less usual. That afternoon, she felled the Arishok and was nearly killed herself.


	9. Chapter 9

Hawke's memories of the Qunari invasion were a strange patchwork of memory and dream. She was never quite sure where the truth ended and the fiction began. Later, Cullen and Aveline confirmed the following:

Hawke and Aveline encountered Cullen at a junction between Hightown, Lowtown, and the docks, where the fighting was thick with smoke and swords and fire. The Circle's senior senior enchanters fought alongside templars to push back Qunari saarebas and warriors intent on destruction.

"Messere, thank the Maker," Cullen said, shielding her as an explosion ripped through a nearby scaffolding. Aveline raised a eyebrow at the honorific, but Cullen and Hawke didn't notice. "We received reports the Qunari are taking hostages to the Keep. The Knight-Commander and the First Enchanter have gone ahead, along with Enchanter Bethany. I won't leave my mages; I can't abandon this position." He barked an order to several templars near him as another scaffolding exploded and again raised his arm to shield her from debris.

"We'll support them," Hawke said.

"Maker guide you, Messere," he said. The kiss that followed was bruising. She grabbed the front of his plate, holding him close. When they parted, she left him in the smoke and chaos.

Vincent and Aveline confirmed this part:

Hawke and Aveline arrived at the Keep and found the Viscount's head at the bottom the stairs. Vincent was standing between the Qunari and the remaining nobles, a fine bead of sweat on his brow, his face slick with blood. Vincent was dwarfed by the Arishok and the Qunari warriors, but he remained straight-backed and calm, ever elegant, ever graceful, even as they reached for their blades.

"Ah," Vincent said, when Hawke climbed the stairs. "A more worthy negotiator has arrived."

History confirmed the rest:

The Arishok challenged her, all rippling muscles and war paint, and Hawke leapt. They fought long and hard before succumbing to their respective destinies. The Arishok fulfilled his role and died. Hawke fulfilled hers and flew.

For Hawke, the duel with the Arishok was a tangled swirl of motion, pain, and blood. The Arishok was bigger and stronger, towering over her with massive horns and an equally massive greatsword. She was faster, her strength agile and graceful, but she could only run so much. Hawke remembered two things clearly. The first was her misstep. She dodged right when she should have dodged left and met steel. The Arishok's blade rended armor and leather and skin and breast and muscle like paper. Her heart and guts were spared, but time was up: she would bleed out.

The second was the killing blow. Hawke was never sure how she ended up in a striking position. The only certainty was the bone-jarring jolt that ran through her right arm when she buried her sword under his neck and the blast of pain when he wrenched her arm out of its socket in his death throes.

The aftermath was a jumbled mess. She watched the Qunari leave. She felt Aveline's heavy arm around her shoulders. People began clapping and cheering. Her knees buckled. The floor was cold and hard. Hands held her stomach. Vincent's voice, sharp and demanding. Her mother's hands, oddly cold against her forehead. Droplets of water on her face (why was it raining?). A set of dainty hands at her breast and the prickle of light and magic, warm and ebbing, and pain—stark, immediate, insufferable pain—as magic forced her body to yield and serve, the muscle knitting and fusing over her ribs, her flesh cleaving to itself again. Pain reduced to a dull, simmering ache.

"It's not enough," Cici said, faraway. "I need—"

"The Knight-Commander," Vincent said. Hawke thought he meant Cullen. Everything was fine, now. Cullen was here. Cullen, Cullen, Cullen…

"Is it over?" Cold, hard, not Cullen at all.

"Mother! Marian!" But wasn't Bethany in her cage? Hawke kept listening for Cullen, waiting for his hands on her, waiting for his command. Death was at her doorstep and all the little boxes were open wide; there were no secrets in the end.

"I love you," Hawke said, and the light was snuffed out.

Hawke fluttered in and out of fever dreams and relived the duel a dozen times. Sometimes the Arishok's blade severed her rib cage or dipped into her belly, eviscerating organs. Sometimes she glimpsed the Black City before she was engulfed in darkness. Sometimes she only suffered a glancing blow. But always, always, the Arishok drew blood; always, always, crimson blossomed at her breast.

In one dream she encountered a templar's corpse at a crossroads, trampled into the ground and caked in muddy footprints. She did not remove the helm. She was afraid of what she might find beneath.

In another she played Diamondback with her dead brother Carver and the ogre that killed Carver. They made small talk about the weather. The ogre expressed regret at not having known the Qun. Hawke bragged about killing the Arishok. The ogre was impressed. Carver, predictably, was not. "But you're a coward, sister," Carver said. "Or have you forgotten?"

In yet another, she smelled lyrium, heavy and suffocating, and heard the fervent monotone of the Chant. "Templars pray to the Maker, the Maker prays to Andraste," she said, with weird clarity.

A gloved hand smoothed her hair back from her clammy forehead. "Messere," a voice said.

"Andraste is my sister," Hawke said. "The sister is in my sister."

"Messere, rest."

The voice reminded her of someone. "He wouldn't harbor a mage, even a baby," she told the voice confidentially. "He's too devoted."

"Messere, you must rest."

"I'll end it so he doesn't have to choose." The hand on her forehead stilled. She drifted off again.

On the third night Hawke woke in the dark, her mouth parched and sour, her eyelids stiff. She croaked for water and her mother stirred beside her. Soon she was sipping broth and resisting Leandra's attempts to mother. Leandra's face was drawn, but relieved.

"I feel fine," Hawke lied. She was still groggy, but cognizant enough to understand how bad it was. She was lucky to be alive.

When Anders arrived and saw her awake and alert he smiled. It was his real smile, the one that made his eyes crinkle, and she forgot all of their nasty fights in the previous months. He removed the dressing and she saw her injury for the first time. A puckered gash, trussed with black stitching, ran from her collarbone to her navel, bowing at her breast.

Hawke's breasts were not her defining feature, in her opinion, but she'd always been secretly pleased with Cullen's surreptitious glances whenever she wore summer dresses. The stitching that now marred the slope of her left breast, bisecting the soft tissue and cutting through the circle of her areola, made her nauseous. She lifted her face, unable to look any longer. She felt disconnected, as though she inhabited a stranger's body. "Who else has seen this?"

"Only your mother," Anders said.

"It will heal," she heard herself say. "This is only temporary."

"Cicely mitigated most of the damage," Anders said carefully. "We're lucky she was there." What he left unsaid was that magic could staunch blood, knit muscle and bone, and promote natural healing, but it did not erase scars or replace tissue.

"Cici," Hawke corrected, keeping her eyes averted. She heard the front door open and Bodahn's eager voice followed by the rumble of Cullen's. She stiffened and the stitches screamed.

"Hawke…" Anders began. Hawke didn't hear him. She scrabbled for the sheets and was rewarded with pain. "Hawke, you can't—you have to be careful, you'll—" Anders tried to catch her hands, but she wouldn't be held, not by him. She struggled away, still pulling at the sheets. "It will look different when it heals," he insisted. "I know this is a shock to wake up to, but he's a soldier, he's seen—" Anders caught her hands, forcing them still, and she was powerless, too weak to pull away, too broken to resist.

Hawke began to cry, and that hurt too, which only made her cry harder. Everything hurt.

"Hawke," Anders said. She looked away, humiliated by the indignity of her streaming eyes and runny nose. One of the tears ran down the column of her neck, mingling among the redness and sutures until it was lost.

Anders went into the hall and she heard muffled conversation. He returned, shutting the door behind him. "You need a clean dressing," he said, firmly but kindly. Hawke mopped her face with the edge of the bedsheet while he dressed the wound. She watched listlessly as he showed her how to best secure the wrapping. "Now," he said, "You need something clean and comfortable to wear." He rooted through her closet and produced a white cotton tunic. He helped her pull it over her head and offered her a hairbrush. She let it fall into her lap.

"Tell me the truth," she said.

Anders let out a slow breath. "There will be a large scar," he said. "Your breasts will be asymmetrical. But Hawke, these types of injuries always look better with the stitches removed."

Hawke let out a slow breath of her own. "It will be hideous."

"Are you more worried about being scarred or about Cullen's reaction?" Anders asked, an edge to his voice. He shook his head. "I'm sorry, that—Look." He took her hand, which remained limp in his. "I can't stand him. He's insufferable. But your appearance is the absolute last thing he's worried about. Trust me."

Anders was trying to comfort her and failing. Hawke wasn't stupid. The foundations of their relationship were sex and physical attraction. She had a sinking suspicion that her disfigurement would be the loose thread that unraveled the tapestry. But she was tired, so very tired, and the only thing stronger than her fear was how much she missed him. She eased back onto her pillow. "Tell him I'm ready," she said. When he reached for the doorknob, she added, "Thank you, Anders."

"You're welcome," he said. "Just remember the worst is over."

In a moment Cullen blew through the door, fully-armored and covered in grime and sweat. He looked as though he'd slogged through a mud pit somewhere. There was a moment of silence when their eyes met.

"How long do you intend to lie there?" he asked curtly, as though nothing had happened.

Her heart lifted. "I thought you liked me in bed," she said hesitantly.

He made a disapproving sound. "You've been a mess these past few days." His eyes rolled over her as if she were a recruit at inspection and he shook his head. "I see nothing's changed," he said, with a perfect blend of exasperation and condescension. "Do you intend to use that brush or have you decided to forgo grooming altogether?"

"I'm considering a new look," she said. She was pleased with how careless her voice sounded, how much stronger she felt.

He sat at her bedside with a clank of armor. He began to brush her hair, but only managed two careful, even strokes before the facade broke. He lowered the brush. He tried to start again and faltered. His gloved hand found hers. "Messere," he said, more an exhalation than a word, and crumpled. She touched his face. His stubble was comfortable and familiar under her hand.

"Cullen," she said, stroking his cheek with her thumb.

"It has nothing to do with you," he said, wiping his eyes. He turned his face to kiss her palm. "There's a lyrium shortage." She recognized the defense mechanism: a stab at humor, draped in self-deprecation, that fell short of the mark. Maker, he was going to make them both cry.

"Was there a bath water shortage, too?" she asked.

"Shut up," he mumbled into her palm. He leaned forward to kiss her, but her mind flashed to the image of puckered skin and black stitching and she shied away. He hesitated, then briskly kissed her forehead. "You should rest, messere," he said.

She did, but her sleep was fitful. Her dreams were filled with Qunari blades and the tumbling, rolling heads of Viscounts. She woke often, covered in cold sweat, clenched by a fear she could not explain.

Hawke's first day of full recovery, in which she was finally able to be up and about, coincided with a delivery. A set of armor arrived, custom-made for the city's new Champion, along with a congratulatory note from Knight-Commander Meredith. Hawke was standing in the entryway staring down at the massive crate, when Vincent arrived.

"Darling, you're about," he said, kissing her cheek. "What have we here?" He'd also been marked by the Qunari; a scar now glanced across his cheek and split his upper lip. Hawke could feel the scar when he kissed her.

"Champion's armor," Hawke said. "A gift from the Knight-Commander." She straightened, and Vincent's eyes fell on the snarl of scar tissue that peeked out from the neckline of her loose dress. He averted his gaze and Hawke quickly adjusted her dress, tugging the neckline up.

"Where's Cici?" she asked. The women had become good friends. Cici always knew how to make her laugh.

"The Knight-Commander has taken a personal interest in you, darling. There's a nasty rumor that the Order is watching for apostates entering and leaving the Champion's estate."

"I understand she's taken a personal interest in blocking the vote for the new Viscount, as well," she said.

"That's actually what I came to talk to you about," Vincent said. "We're rather concerned about the influence the Knight-Commander has over the magistrates. We're seeing regulatory changes that negatively impact our business." He tapped his fingers lightly on the crate. "Kirkwall is no longer ideal for our main offices. We're relocating to Antiva City and I'm moving the family there as well. Some of the noble houses have expressed an interest in, ah, _greener pastures_. The Porteras, the Orans, the Dowells, and the Pendels will be joining us."

"I see," Hawke said. She remembered Varric mentioning escalating tensions between Altrada Shipping and the Order since the Viscount's assassination.

"I was hoping to add the Amells to that list."

"Vincent," she said.

"I don't have to tell you how problematic things have become." His eyes drifted to her chest and away. "The Order is too bold. The magistrates do nothing. This isn't a safe place for apostates of any social strata." Hawke read the subtext easily enough: Cici's freedom as an apostate was at risk. "Darling, you owe Kirkwall nothing. You've given them far more than they deserve. They will find another Champion." He clasped her hand in both of his. "Come with us. You have a place with us."

"What about mother?" Hawke said, knowing that was only part of it. The locked boxes, which had lain shuttered and dormant all this time, grew restless.

"I'll do whatever it takes, darling. I'll woo your mother myself, if need be. I'll smuggle your sister out of the Gallows. I'll part the Amaranthine."

Vincent was not usually this insistent. Hawke had the sense his departure must be imminent. "I'll miss you both," she said.

"You don't have to," he said. She thought he was going to kiss her cheek, but he kissed her on the lips—soft, sweet, warm, and at the end, just a hint of tongue for her to remember him by. Very much like their first kiss, and yet—she felt the scar on his lip and the tightness of the newly-healed wound on her chest.

One could never go back. Nevertheless, Hawke entertained the idea. She could say yes. She could go with them, perhaps even with her mother and Bethany as well, somehow, and they would never see the City of Chains again. Goodbye Kirkwall, goodbye Champion, goodbye Meredith, goodbye Gallows, goodbye Hightown—

_And goodbye Cullen_. It would take a force greater than the Maker himself to induce Cullen to turn his back on his commander. The realization was enough to bring the fantasy to a reeling halt. Hawke reminded herself that her mother would never be persuaded to start over and her sister would never escape the Gallows.

"I'm staying," she said.

"Perhaps I could beg a favor of the Champion?"

"Name it."

"Mind the Queen of Antiva until we return."

"Oh, Vincent," she said. He was stalling. He couldn't bring himself to say, _goodbye_.

"Take her out regularly, mind the jib. Use that ridiculous templar of yours for an anchor if necessary, I know he'll sink straight to the bottom."

"He doesn't like to sail, but I'll keep it in mind."

"Rust might be an issue."

"Goodbye, Vincent," she said. _Goodbye, Cicely._

"Until next time, darling," he replied, and gave her a parting kiss. The following day, the Rising Hawk disembarked in the early morning without fanfare. Later that morning, when a squadron of templars stormed the Portera estate, only servants remained.

Hawke swung the practice sword and her breath hissed between her teeth. Rehabilitation was the most difficult thing she had ever endured. Her right arm, once a pillar of strength, was so crippled the simplest tasks were arduous. Her range of motion was short, her grip was weak, and a deep ache lurked in her joints. On top of it all, she was sexually frustrated beyond belief—she was far too self-conscious about her body to risk any chance of Cullen seeing her chest; she'd consistently rebuffed his advances until he gave up altogether. They hadn't slept together in months and the lack of a sexual outlet only soured her mood.

"You're giving up," Cullen observed.

She glowered at him. She'd only accepted his offer of help when her recovery plateaued and her own training failed to produce results. Initially she'd been uneasy about being alone with him at the beach because she was afraid she would be forced to address the strain that their lack of intimacy was putting on the relationship. She needn't worry. Cullen was intent on her training above all else. He showed her no mercy. She was beginning to appreciate why recruits grumbled so much when 'the dog lord' drilled them.

"I'm resting," she told him pointedly. Every muscle ached. She wanted to collapse and sleep for a week. She couldn't deny the improvements she'd seen with his help. After countless hours training on the beach with the surf lapping at her feet and her toes dug into the sand, her grip was stronger and her range of motion was gradually returning. But it was hard, and it hurt, and she was sexually frustrated, and she felt justified in her moodiness, especially when Cullen was so relentless. He always pushed, no matter how badly she hurt. Whenever she said couldn't go any farther, he argued she could. Whenever she sought sympathy, he gave none. It rankled.

"You can't quit whenever it gets difficult," he said, as if she was a quitter.

"Sod off!" she snapped, throwing down the practice sword, which had grown too heavy in her hand. It was lightweight sword that bore a fraction of the weight of her old greatsword, a fact that angered her all the more. "I'm not _quitting_. I've done plenty!"

"Prove it," he said, blocking her path and motioning for her to strike him.

She tried. She took a swing at him and he deflected it effortlessly. Her arm was still slow and tight. She blew a long, seething breath through her nose.

"Prove it," he repeated. Hawke lunged and he didn't deflect this time. She struck him solidly on the arm. He shook his head. "Shall we go back to basics, messere? If you're no longer fit to carry a blade—"

Hawke lashed out. This time, he didn't deflect in time, and she struck him hard across the face. "Oh, Maker!" Her hand flew to her mouth, which formed a small "o" of alarm.

Cullen touched his lip with his thumb, checking for blood. "Much better," he said quietly.

"Oh, Cullen, I didn't—" She stopped when she saw the heat in his eyes. She drew back at once, uncertain. "Cullen," she said, her voice unsteady. She was sweaty and sandy and exhausted, and so was he, but she felt a sexual longing stirring deep within her that was impossible to ignore.

"Messere," he said. She wavered as he closed the distance. She'd hit him. She'd hit him _hard_. And he _liked it_. She swallowed, unsure what to make of this new development, and he took the opportunity to move close. He trailed a hand down her arm.

Maker, she was not ready for this. She was starved for intimacy, but she couldn't forget the ugly scar that wound down her chest. Cullen couldn't see it. She didn't want him to ever see it. "Don't," she said. He stopped. She licked her lips. "I'm not ready."

"What will help you get ready?" he asked, his voice still low, and he brushed against her hip.

For months, the guilt Hawke felt for rejecting his intimacy had been steadily growing. She was concerned he would eventually turn to someone else for relief. At the same time, she resented the idea that it was her responsibility to satisfy his needs. The hand brushing her hip would have been welcome in most circumstances, but not when she was in this frame of mind. "You don't have to rely on me," she said. It sounded colder than she meant.

Cullen dropped his hand. "I miss you," he said, with the familiar clipped edge of hurt feelings.

"You don't have to wait on me. If you have _needs_." She drew the word out as though it were something unpleasant and hated herself for it. "You can take care of yourself."

"That's not what this is about," he said, now angry.

"I'm through for today." She brushed past him

"When are we going to talk, messere?"

She paused, settling on her heels in the sand. "Since when do you talk?" she asked, unable to keep the accusatory tone out of her voice.

"Messere, this is not easy for me."

"Not easy?" She laughed, the new fake laugh she'd adopted that carried derision and anger rather than humor. "Well, it's not easy for me either. In case the idea hadn't occurred to you."

"Marian, we're not intimate. We don't talk. We only see each other when you're training. Or we're fighting. We can't keep going like this."

"Or what?" she asked, and before she could restrain it, her secret fear rushed out: "Or you'll leave me?"

His eyes became guarded as he withdrew into his old shell. Her relief at ending the conversation was punctuated with heartache for the way their relationship was changing. Maybe he was leaving, right now. Maybe he already had a foot out the door, and she had given him the push he needed. Maybe—

Her guts clenched. She did not know what to do. "That's enough for now," she said, her voice tight. He didn't try to stop her this time, and when she reached the end of the path, she found that was the part that hurt most of all.

Hawke trained alone at the estate the next day. She was frustrated, sweaty, and tired when Bodahn brought a pitcher of water and oil, and she had mixed feelings when she saw Cullen in tow, clean-shaven and casually dressed. When she lifted her eyes to his and found only sympathy she felt slightly guilty. She looked away, brushing the hair from her forehead. She hadn't quite worked up the courage to resume their discussion. Usually, she was the one who brokered a peace. This was the first time he'd sought her out. She hadn't been expecting it. "Good afternoon," she said, groped for an apology, and didn't find one.

She offered him water and he politely declined. She poured a glass for herself and drank. She took the oil flask, which was filled with a fragrant concoction her mother insisted would alleviate aches and pains, and emptied a generous amount into her palm. She worked the oil into her shoulder. Cullen joined her in the shade of the portico and leaned against the wall, watching, unhurried.

"Cullen, I'm sorry," she said finally. She assumed he was waiting for an apology. "I haven't been fair to you."

He shook his head. "No, I should apologize." He tapped his right shoulder, the one that pained him when he was stressed, and said, "They told me I'd never be able to wield a sword again. The Circle mages refused to heal me and I was locked in solitary confinement for two weeks without treatment. When I arrived at Greenfell Chantry for rehabilitation…" He looked away, swallowing. "Most of the templars there were lyrium-addled, but there was one with a similar injury who was lucid. He showed me the techniques I taught you. He told me if it didn't hurt, if I didn't want to quit, I was doing it wrong. He gave me no mercy." He shrugged. "It worked." He looked back at her. "I don't think you're weak. I pushed because you're strong and I know you can handle it. Perhaps it wasn't my place. I should have asked you what you needed rather than presume."

Hawke sighed. "It's not that."

"What do you need?" he asked.

"Maybe time," she said, unsure. "Maybe we need time apart."

Cullen frowned. "No," he said, firmly. "We do not."

She felt that old flicker of ire, that spark of anger that only he could rouse. She dropped her hand from her shoulder. "Cullen, you don't get to decide. You just said you shouldn't decide what I need."

"I see where this is going. You won't shut me out, messere. I won't allow it."

"You won't allow it? You're in charge, then? After all this, you're still—Maker, why are you still here? Why don't you go?" It was her new angry voice, the voice that made her mother flinch and Varric turn away, but Cullen was undaunted. That angered her as well: that he wouldn't back down. Why was he so sodding stubborn?

"If you want to end it, you'll have to try harder than that," he said. "You certainly won't goad me into doing it for you."

"What is wrong with you?" she demanded. She pushed him where he stood against the wall, and he seemed surprised by the force of the blow. "What do you even get out of this?"

"Messere," he said, with a note of satisfaction. "You are getting stronger." There was something besides satisfaction in his tone, too; his voice was lower, rougher. She knew what that meant.

"Why?" she demanded, confused and angry and unsure how to proceed. How was he being so calm? Why wasn't he getting angry? She kept trying to push him away and—_Maker_, why wasn't it working? "Why are you here?" she repeated.

"I want you," he said. She laughed. "Is that really so hard to believe?" he asked. "Do you really think I would put up with your bad attitude otherwise? Do you think I'd endure this if there was someone else I wanted more?" The look he gave her was pure challenge. "You can't drive me away like this, messere. You can't make me not want you." She knew he was goading her but she didn't care. She pushed him back against the wall and he moved his hands to steady himself.

_Prove it._

Finally, she yielded to the impulse that she had resisted for so long. She reached down, cupping him through his trousers, and squeezed. His eyes never left hers. His expression was controlled, but she caught the glimpse of heat underneath.

"I'm going to make you come," she said.

"You remember how?" he asked. The taunt had just enough bite—was the last push she needed.

She curled her fingers under his laces, jerking them loose, and opened the front of his trousers. She slid her hand, still slick with oil, down his stomach and brushed against his cock, exploring. Cullen's breath hissed as her fingers closed around him. She stroked his full length and he shut his eyes, shifting his hips to give her better access, while his cock hardened in her hand.

Her flutter of arousal was mingled with pride. She liked that. She liked the feeling of power it gave her to touch him like this and feel him harden in her grasp. He was finally reacting the way she expected him to. She was controlling the encounter now. She stroked him again, slowly, purposefully, savoring the feel of oil on skin. She ran her hand from the base of his shaft to the head and she rested it in her closed fist.

"Say you want me," she told him, in a voice so husky she barely recognized it.

"I want you," he said, reaching for her, his hand light on her arm. She grabbed his wrist and pinned his hand to the wall. She gave his cock a long, hard stroke. His hips rolled towards her, his breath quickening.

"Say you need me," she said.

"I need you," he said, and she stroked again, and he stifled a sound.

She stopped stroking when the tip of his cock was firm in her fist and rubbed her oiled thumb against him. "Show me," she said.

"Marian," he said, trying not to beg, trying not to push into her hand.

"Show me what you want," she said.

He pushed. She had to balance against the force of his thrust. She squeezed to match his rhythm and his breathing grew ragged, the hand under hers tightening against the wall. When he twitched in her grasp and she knew he was close she was seized by an overwhelming urge to feel him come in her mouth. She released his wrist to grab his hip and began stroking him again. When he leaned his upper back against the wall, angling his hips, submitting utterly, she went to her knees and drew him to her mouth. She licked away a bead of precum.

"Marian," he whispered, running his hands through her hair, his cock pulsing and insistent at her lips.

She sucked lightly on the head, flicking the underside with her tongue, making him groan. "You want me?" she asked.

"Yes," he said, kneading his hands in her hair, pulling her hair.

"Show me how much you want me," she said, pressing her lips against the head of his cock once more. She reached around to his backside and urged him into her mouth. Cullen slid his hips forward, gradually sheathing himself between her lips. At once, he hunched over her, his lips parted, his breathing heavier with each rock of his hips. He thrust into her mouth and she hummed against him, feeling every throb, every twitch. She ran the flat of her tongue against him, taking it all in: soft skin, hard length, warmth, oil.

"Marian," he managed, in strangled warning.

She pulled back. "Should I stop?"

"No, please—" His hands were buried in her hair, stroking urgently, rubbing her scalp.

"You don't want me to stop?" she asked, running her tongue along the underside of his shaft, and his fingers tightened in her hair. She'd never teased him like like this before. She'd certainly never exerted this level of control over him before. She was enthralled by how undone he was, how much he craved her, how badly he needed her.

"No, please don't stop," he said, his cock rubbing insistently against her cheek, and his tone fed the flare of heat between her legs.

"You want to come in my mouth," she said, licking slowly, luxuriating in the contours of his erection.

"Yes," he said.

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, I want to come in your mouth."

"You want me to taste your release," she said.

"Yes," he whispered, almost a sigh. "Yes, I want—"

She drew him into her mouth and sucked hard and the word he moaned next bore only the faintest semblance of her name. His hips jerked and she tasted him. There was no metallic tang of lyrium—just slight bitters and salt; just _Cullen, _hot and thick on her tongue—and she swallowed, and kept swallowing, until he was spent. He hugged her to his body and she sighed against his cock.

He cupped her face and she gave him a parting lick when he pulled out of her mouth. He dropped to his knees and kissed her, devoured her, all tongue and passion, with a growl in his throat that made her stomach flutter. "Was that was all right?" he asked. He was still hard, his body eager and at attention. "What do you want? Tell me what you want. Tell me what you need."

His hand found its way to her crotch, rubbing urgently through her leggings, and he fumbled with the laces, tugging them free. She caught his hand and guided it under her smalls.

"Touch me," she said, and he did, his index finger alighting on her clitoris, circling. The tingling sensation in her belly intensified. "One finger," she said, and he obeyed. "Two," she said, shifting her hips, her breath hitching. "Faster," she said, and gasped. She succumbed to his familiar touch, riding his hand until she came. He kissed her hard and he kept stroking, leaving an electric tingle in the aftermath. He withdrew his hand, but kept kissing, and she responded, first with a tentative press of her tongue, and then more deeply. His hand drifted to the front of her shirt, touching the fastenings, but it was still too soon. She felt her guts tighten when he brushed her breasts through the cloth.

"No," she said quickly, pulling away.

His hands stilled.

"I want to. But not yet," she said. He reached for her laces and restrung the front of her leggings, tying the loose ends neatly. "Are you angry?" she asked, as he fastened his trousers.

"No. I… want you. All of you. But I understand you'll say no until you can say yes."

After Cullen left and Hawke went to wash and dress for dinner, she found her eye drawn to the crate waiting in the side hall. She lifted the heavy lid, staring down at the Champion's armor. She drew out the jacket, sliding her right arm into it, and flexed. It barely hurt at all.

After Hawke officially accepted the mantle of Champion she found it difficult to escape the deluge. Everyone wanted something from the Champion. The cottage was the only place she could find peace and quiet. Most Kirkwallers had no qualms seeking her out day or night at the estate or the Hanged Man, but they avoided the cottage, perhaps fearing the Knight-Captain's wrath. Hawke began visiting Cullen with greater frequency and he found ways to entice her to stay for longer stretches at a time. She wasn't ready to disrobe in front of him, but she was eager to use her hands and mouth, to taste and touch and kiss, and so was he. They quickly became reacquainted.

Hawke had spent the day on the beach training and meditating, and was relaxing with a swim in the ocean, when she encountered the jellyfish. The waves were choppy and she did not see the transparent, floating mass in the water until it was too late. The delicate tendrils wrapped around her leg, burning like fire. Hawke screamed, swallowed a mouthful of salt water, and struggled to keep her head above the waves as her muscles spasmed and cramped. Cullen heard her calling his name from inside the cottage. He charged down the beach and dove in, reaching her in several swift, powerful strokes.

"Jellyfish!" she warned, clutching her throbbing leg.

Cullen pulled her to his chest as he drew her inland and lifted her out of the water to carry her ashore. She wrapped her arms around his neck, feeling faint.

"Messere?" Cullen asked.

"I'm fine," she said, her teeth chattering. But when Cullen stooped to set her down, she stumbled. Without a word, he scooped her back up. He paused at the pump, kneeling to run cold water over her feet and legs, and carried her inside to a chair in the kitchen.

"This is a nasty sting, messere," he said after he'd gotten down on his knees to examine the welts that ran along the inside of her ankle up her shin. The pain was fading to a deep throb. He rubbed ointment on on the welts, which made them sting in a different way, and Hawke whimpered, her face wet with the ocean and tears.

Cullen chuckled. "The Champion of Kirkwall felled the Arishok, only to be bested by a jellyfish," he said, in a decidedly Varric-like tone.

"It stings," she whined.

"Come now, Champion," Cullen said, chuckling again, and he kissed her ankle.

She had been trained to respond to such words and her body had not forgotten. She reacted to the shadow of a command, unable to stop her sudden intake of breath. Cullen lifted his eyes and his gaze stopped at her chest.

"Cullen," she said. She realized, to her horror, that he could see everything under the wet frock—the scar, her asymmetrical breasts, everything. The thin, damp fabric did do nothing to protect her.

Cullen licked his lips. She could feel his breath on her foot. He ran his hand up the outside of her leg teasingly. "Messere," he murmured. He pressed a second kiss to her ankle and followed it with a flick of tongue.

"Yes," she gasped. The word slipped out, unbidden. Cullen kissed a path up the inside of her leg to her calf, then her knee. He moved forward, parting her legs, and kissed the inside of her thigh as he trailed his hand up the opposite leg. He rolled his hands over her knees, sliding up her thighs, pushing up the wet frock as he leaned in, kissing ever-closer. She ran her fingers through his wet hair. He paused at the point of no return, his breath coaxing and warm against her skin.

"Messere?"

"Yes," she whispered, and he thumbed her smalls aside and pressed his mouth between her legs. She moaned as he licked her, sedately at first, and then with increasing heat, encouraged by her reaction. He delved with his tongue and she gasped his name and he fumbled with the frock's front lacing, tugging it open.

Before she could stop him or feel self-conscious he exposed her lower belly and pressed his lips to the slick edge of the scar at her navel. He lingered there and worked his way up her torso, kissing her scarred skin with the same ardor as every other part of her. "Cullen," she whispered, when he neared her breast.

He broke away long enough to ask, "Messere?" and look up at her. Any resistance shattered and fell away.

"Yes," she said. He slid his hands up her body, cupping her breasts, only taking his hands off her long enough to tear open the frock. She moaned in her throat as he devoured her, sucking, biting, licking, first one breast, then the other, and it was no different than before. Nothing had changed. His touch was like fire, cleansing and hot.

He broke away again, but did not get a chance to ask. "_Yes_," she gasped, and claimed his mouth. He hauled her into his arms and she hung on for dear life. The chair fell aside with a clatter. On the way to the bedroom her foot caught on the doorframe and Cullen lost his balance. They ended up in an inelegant tangle on the floor.

Cullen took the brunt of it and cursed when he landed. Inexplicably, a giggle welled up in her. There was too much bottled emotion that needed to come out. It had to come out. So it came out as a giggle. A very loud giggle. "Marian," he said, kissing her. The giggles took on a life of their own. She began to laugh: hard, cathartic, full-bellied laughter. He tried to staunch the flow with kisses and failed.

"Cullen," she gasped. "I'm sorry—" He hauled hers onto the bed, pulling his wet shirt over his head as he clambered after. "Oh," she said, wiping her cheeks. He stripped away the frock and tossed it aside. He buried his face in her lap, giving her a few passing licks as he fumbled with his pants, and she curled her fingers in his hair, her laughter supplemented with a throaty hum. He finally pulled his pants off and kicked them away. "Oh, Maker," she said, her chest heaving with the last of the aftershocks.

He tugged away her smalls, disentangling them from her legs, and rolled her over on her stomach. "Shut up," he said, straddling her legs, and gave her a hard smack on the backside. That did the trick. She arched, mewling, all traces of laughter gone, and he hardened against her thigh. He spanked her until her backside was red and she was squirming beneath him. When he rolled her over and she reached for his cock as soon as she saw it.

"Messere—" he warned, but she ignored him. She'd learned a lot about how to use her hands in the past weeks. She cupped his testicles with her left hand and gave him a solid, slow stroke with her right, running her thumb underneath. He surrendered willfully to her touch, his lashes fluttering, and after three strokes he came. His release coated her chest in a lazy arc, the remaining drops trailing down her belly.

"Messere," he sighed, still rocking against her hand, stroking her hips lightly with his fingertips.

She giggled, flushed and pleased with herself.

"You're a mess," he observed, sliding his palms up her chest, rubbing his come into her breasts. She drew his hands to her face and licked his fingers clean, drawing each into her mouth with the curl of her tongue.

When she sucked away the last drop he lunged and kissed her deeply. She moaned, rocking underneath him. He growled and nipped at her neck, then chest, then stomach, making her squirm, before dipping his face between her legs. Soon, her fingers were tangled in his hair again and she was bucking against his mouth. He delved and licked until the insistent press of his tongue brought her to climax. When her trembling subsided, she whispered, "More."

He moved up her body slowly, imparting slick, stubbled kisses, tickling her with his lashes and his breath, and she wiggled and reached for him impatiently. He paused to bite gently at the cleft of her breast. "Did you say something, messere?" he asked.

She seized him by the hair and gave it a tug. "You heard what I said, Knight-Captain."

"Messere," he said demurely. She ran her hand down his side, sliding around to squeeze his backside. Then, without preamble, she spanked him. Hard. "_Messere_," he said, laughing.

She grabbed him by the hair, pulling his ear to her mouth. "I said I've gone too long without you," she breathed. "I said I'm so tight and wet and ready."

"I'm sorry, I didn't catch that," he said, running his hands up her chest. "Say it again?"

"I said I need you inside me," she whispered, digging her fingers into his backside.

"How badly?" he asked, his breath tickling against her neck.

She cupped his backside, using both hands to draw him in as she lifted her hips to meet him, wrapping her legs around his waist. She made a soft sound as she took him inside her.

"Oh," he said, burying his face in her neck.

"You like that?" she asked, using her hands to controlling the thrusts, her breath hitching.

"_Yes,_" he said, curling his fingers in her hair.

She kept the strokes shallow at first, allowing her body to reacclimate to his, and when she was ready, she drew him in completely. He exhaled. She spanked him sharply with the flat of her hand and his breath caught. "More," she said. He rocked his hips forward in a slow, steady tempo, careful not to push too hard or too deep, and she squeezed his backside, urging him on. She spanked him again. "More," she said.

He bit her neck again, harder, and she hit him again, harder, and his hand tightened in her hair, and he obeyed. She arched in his arms and raked her nails up his back, and he set his teeth on her neck with a groan, crushing her to the mattress. Somewhere, amid the relentless thrust of his hips, she came and he followed.

They lay intertwined for several heartbeats. She sighed into his neck, planting tiny kisses under his jaw. "Messere, I needed you so badly," he said, drowsily, as if it were over.

Oh, no. He wasn't getting off that easy. She hooked her leg around his hips and rolled him onto his back. "Shut up," she said, straddling him. "I'm not finished with you. Look at me." He obeyed. She struck him on the flank, hard. He was wide-awake now. His eyes took on a new glint and her stomach cartwheeled in reply. "It's your turn to beg, Knight-Captain," she said.

"Is it?" he asked. Ah, there it was. Hello, little smile.

She leaned forward, taking his cock in hand. "The only words I want to hear from you," she said, "Are 'Yes', 'Champion', and 'More.' Have you been insubordinate, Knight-Captain?" she asked. She gave his cock a squeeze and felt triumphant when it began to stir.

"Yes, Champion," he said, intrigued by this new game with unknown rules.

"Are you ready to learn how the Champion rewards insubordination?" she asked, and gave him another slap for good measure.

"Oh, yes, Champion," he replied.


	10. Chapter 10

Hawke rued the dragon.

A high dragon. A filthy, stinking high dragon. At her mine. Killing _her_ miners. She'd hired those men and paid them. She promised she'd protect them. They were all dead now. Most of them were Ferelden. A few begged her for work and she passed their names along to Hubert as a favor. Some favor.

The incident reinforced an idea that had been brewing in the dark corners of Hawke's mind: every time she dedicated herself to something it was destroyed. She'd poured untold time and energy into the mines over the years and in a matter of days a high dragon, unprecedented in those parts, wiped out everything. She'd broken even financially, but the emotional deficit was hefty.

Hawke trudged back to the city with Fenris and Varric at her side. Varric tried to keep conversation light and upbeat, but Fenris' mood was nearly as dark as Hawke's and conversation was minimal. They parted ways on the outskirts of Lowtown and Hawke stopped at a roadside food vendor's cart for a quick meal.

"It's on the house," the vendor said. He had a certain gleam in his eye. "Anything for the Champion."

Hawke tossed him several coppers anyway, bit heartily into what might or might not be goat, and gave a noncommittal grunt. She spent the next thirty minutes chewing stringy meat and listening to complaints about city governance. By the time she reached the dark, quiet cottage, the sun was dropping.

Hawke washed her arms and face at the outdoor pump and considered her options. She could walk back to Hightown, but Maker, her feet hurt. She needed to get out of her armor. She needed a bath. She needed to stretch her aching shoulder. She needed a spanking. She needed a lot of things and this was the only place she could get them all. Unfortunately, she had no idea when Cullen would return.

Hawke looked out at the road. She would not reach the estate before nightfall and the thought of tramping home in the dark did not appeal. She made a snap decision and jimmied the window. She heard a crack as she forced the frame up, made a mental note to fix it, and reached inside for the latch.

It was strange being in the cottage alone. She lit a lantern and went to the bedroom, careful not to track dirt across the floor. Cullen's full plate was on the armor stand in the right corner. The stand he'd set up in the opposite corner several weeks prior was still empty. Well, it would get some use now. Hawke undressed, hanging her scored, singed armor piece by piece. The ring she wore on the chain around her neck might be lucky (Varric swore it was), but it didn't prevent her breastplate from being dented by the dragon's tail. She peeled away her underpadding to reveal a myriad of purpling bruises. Her shoulder throbbed.

"Maker's balls," she muttered. She drew a bath and took a long soak, but the lukewarm water only provided temporary relief. She dried off and sat on the bed, a towel wrapped haphazardly around her waist, and stretched her shoulder. Pain radiated.

She didn't notice Cullen at first. She turned her head as she lengthened the stretch and saw him standing in the doorway. "My shoulder," she said, digging her fingers into the offending joint.

"I see." He loosened the collar of his dress uniform, his gaze moving from her shoulder to the bed to the armor stand to the window—everywhere but her face.

She'd overstepped. He'd come home after a long day to find her skulking about, leaving her grimy clothes everywhere, using his bath. "I'm sorry, I was on my way back from the mines. I wanted to see you. I…" She wasn't sure how to finish it.

"You were waiting for me," he suggested, touching her arm. His eyes settled on her shoulder and stayed there. She surrendered for inspection and he stretched her arm out lengthwise, feeling along the back of her shoulder blade.

"Sorry about the window." She was suddenly uncomfortable about her method of entry. For all her noble trappings and title, this proved she was still a blade at heart. She might have waited outside or left and returned when he was home, but instead she'd broken the window like a common thief.

"I saw it." He didn't take his eyes off her shoulder.

"I'll fix it."

"No need." His touch was firm as he explored her arm. "Messere," he sighed as his thumb found the biggest knot. He pushed firmly and there was a faint popping sound as her body yielded.

Hawke groaned. "That's it. That's the bastard that did this to me."

"Lie down," he said and she flopped face-down on the mattress. He pushed his thumbs into the pressure points, loosening the muscles and working out the knots. Soon Hawke was nearly drooling on the mattress.

"Thank you," she said, her voice muffled by the pillow. "Thank. You."

"I'm not finished. Messere, you must stretch daily. I told you—"

"I know thank you," she said. "I know I know I know thank you thank you." He kept kneading her shoulder and she relaxed as the pain faded.

Hawke woke in the middle of the night to find blankets tucked around her and Cullen sleeping an arm's length away. She rolled on her side and drifted back to sleep. She was later roused by lips against the back of her neck and hardness against her backside. She rubbed against him sleepily and his hand drifted over her hip and between her legs. The sex began in a slow, dreamlike way, Cullen's fingers gently circling, making her wet and warm. "Messere," he murmured into her hair, sliding his hand along her inner thigh to part her legs.

"Yes," she murmured back. He pushed into her with exquisite slowness, centimeter by centimeter, stopping when he was fully inside her. Hawke turned her face, rubbing against his rough cheek, and reached back to stroke his thigh. He rocked his hips, and the world condensed until it contained nothing but their slow, steady tempo and soft breathing.

When he broke the silence with a soft, "Good morning, Champion," in her ear, she smiled. The promise of orgasm hovered around her, soft and light, until his languid thrusts brought her to a gentle climax. She shuddered quietly and Cullen pressed his face against her neck, his hands exploring, and thrusts slow and steady. When he came, he held her close.

They lay in silence, listening to the measure of each other's breathing, until his cock softened and his body eased out of hers. She turned her head to say something and he kissed her. She tried again and he kissed her again, more insistently this time. She laughed and drifted back to sleep. When she woke, she found herself tucked in once again. The sheets on Cullen's side were smooth and neat. Cullen was gone.

If puttering about in the cottage alone at night felt odd, puttering about in the early morning was even more so. She dug into the closet, retrieving spare clothes she'd stored there, and surveyed her armor. The dent in the breastplate would need to be hammered out by a smith. She would have to carry it, and the Champion's armor was heavy and dirty and there was still a lingering ache in her shoulder. She went to the kitchen, rummaged for breakfast, and found some bread and dried fruit. She was chewing thoughtfully, planning her strategy, when she saw it.

A key. Right in the center of the table, with a short length of red ribbon tied around it. Had it been there the day before? No. It definitely hadn't.

Hawke stared at it. She swallowed the chunk of bread in her mouth. She glanced at the window. The latch was still broken. She could come and go that way, if she wanted. She looked back at the table.

The key waited.

She sat on a chair. She chewed another chunk of bread.

That key wasn't going anywhere.

Hawke cast about furtively for aid, but found none.

She told herself if she had a key, she could take the breastplate for repairs and leave the rest here to collect at her convenience. When she returned, she would put the key back where she found it. She hooked the edge of the ribbon with a finger and held it up, watching the key twist on the end. She dropped it into her other hand. The metal was cool. She shoved it into her pocket.

The key never found its back way to the table. Several days later, Cullen repaired the window latch.

In the coming months, they took turns waking one another.

Cullen occasionally had nightmares and would startle awake, drenched in cold sweat. He would reach for her, seeking human warmth, and Hawke would scoot close, even though he was too hot and the closeness made it difficult for her to sleep comfortably. She would lay awake listening to the uneasy cadence of his breathing until he rose to attend his post.

Most of the time they took turns waking each other in the early morning before sunrise. Cullen would nudge her from behind with a growing erection or nip drowsily at her back and shoulder until she responded. Hawke's favorite method was to wiggle under the covers, nuzzling and licking, until he gave a signal. One morning she navigated under the sheets, found a profound morning erection, and did not wait for a sign. Cullen was pleased to wake to her humming lips around his cock.

Afterward, Hawke watched him dress. Cullen had begun to put on a little weight and would scrutinize his reflection as though he might shed the extra pounds with a stern look. He caught her eye in the mirror as he was fastening his skirts and turned sideways, pushing out his stomach. Hawke giggled. He winked, then looped the sash around his waist and pulled it tight. He smoothed his gambeson and began to don his plate. Sometimes she offered to help, but he was so accustomed to the task he could handle it faster without her.

Hawke's eyes drifted past Cullen's neat, pressed skirts and meticulous armor to her own reflection. Her hair was tousled and the sheets were messily draped in her lap. "Earlier," she began. She was harboring doubts about instigating oral sex without his permission. The unease that had once hung over such encounters was gone. He clearly enjoyed sharing that type of intimacy with her now. But she still wondered if she'd overstepped.

"Mmm," he said, straightening the sash. There was a pocket on the outside of his gambeson and he reached for it absently, his gauntleted fingertips resting just inside his chest plate. He had a habit of checking the pocket each morning.

"Were you ready?" she asked. "You didn't say…"

He hesitated, not sure what she meant. "Oh. Of course, messere." He looked at her through the mirror. She hedged and he rounded to her side of the bed and caught her chin, giving her a quick kiss. "You know me," he said. He stopped on his way out the door, his plate clanking as he turned. "I know you," he said, tentatively. It was a question without the proper inflection. She'd never thought of Cullen as "cute," but it was cute the way he said it. The earnestness in his voice gave him a sweet sort of vulnerability in spite of his stature and heavy plate.

"You know you do," she said.

Cullen took her words to heart. After an unfortunate abstinence caused by busy schedules and late nights at the Gallows, she woke one morning to find his cock between her legs. "Good morning, Champion," he said, sliding his hand under her thigh.

"Oh, Maker," she whispered, still shrouded in the remnants of sleep. She had fantasized about waking with him inside her, and when he shifted his hips, changing the angle of penetration, she was immediately aroused.

"Wake up, Champion," he said, nipping at her ear again. She moaned, reaching back to grip his thigh, and he squeezed her hand. "Do you like being woken by your Knight-Captain?" he said. He bit at the column of her neck, accenting each with the tiniest press of his tongue.

"Oh, Maker, yes," she said, and felt him smile against her. "Yes, always wake me," she said, reaching back over her head, running her fingers through his hair. She could feel the tingling sensation deep in her belly fighting its way free.

"I could wake you every morning, messere." He covered her neck with sloppy, biting, sucking kisses and slid his hand up her body to tangle his fingers in her hair.

"Yes, every morning," she whispered, lost in his thrusts. "Maker, _yes_, please, I want you every morning."

His lips stilled against her neck. "And every night?" he asked, his breath warm on her skin. Hawke was distracted by the quiver that rolled through her. Climax was well on its way, strengthened by fantasy made reality, by the sloppy kisses planted along the curve of her neck, by the fingers tangled possessively in her hair, by the promise of _every morning_.

"Oh, _Cullen_," she gasped, pulling his hair. "_Cullen_." The little locked boxes eased open as warmth flooded through her, the spark of orgasm igniting warm and interminable between her legs. The tumbled rush of words that followed was part whisper and part moan: "Oh, Maker, I love you so much."

His hips jerked, his breath catching, and he lost the rhythm. He fumbled for her thigh and rolled onto his back, pulling her with him, his cock still inside. She startled at the sudden movement. He supported her weight in the cradle of his hips, sliding his right arm around to hold her up, while he ran his other hand through her hair, tilting her face and pulling her close. She rested her forehead against his. "Cullen," she said. He ran his hand down her neck and squeezed. She shut her eyes.

"Look at me, messere," he said, stroking her clitoris with his right hand. She obeyed, her eyes fluttering open, as he squeezed her neck again. "I want you in my bed every morning," he said. Her hips bucked slightly against his forearm, but he held her firmly and continued stroking, his fingers circling, augmenting the heated throb of his cock between her legs.

She swallowed against the wonderful pressure of his hand. It was warmth and constriction without the harsh bite of the leather belt or the pinch of the clasp. "Yes," she said, and he switched from circling to rubbing, stoking the fire that blazed through her body. She slid her hand over his, feeling the tendons flex when he squeezed her neck.

"I want you in my bed every night," he whispered.

Her breath quickened against his cheek. "Cullen," she moaned, her breathing ragged. Her fingers tightened on his hand, urging.

"Promise me," he murmured. He squeezed her neck firmly as he began to thrust. His cock was searing with his release and his hand was strong on her neck and his fingers were circling, circling, ever circling. Her legs parted wider still and her back arched and her lashes fluttered and she surrendered.

She promised. She promised. She promised. She promised. The sensations blurred together, her body was electric, stretched taut, insatiable. When it ended, she was draped over him boneless and exhausted, her legs splayed wide, while his fingers still rubbed between her legs, teasing out the last of the electricity and fire. He pulled out, making her groan, and rolled on top of her, kissing her fervently, his cock sticky and hot against her inner thigh. He ran his fingers through her hair, along her neck, burying his face in her warmth.

"Promise?" he asked, wanting to be sure.

"Promise," she said. And she kept her promise, for the most part. They still quarreled regularly, and at times Hawke became so incensed she would return to the Amell estate for several days. But she always found her way back to him. She always returned home.

In the late fall, Hawke's monthly blood was late. After several anxious days, she reminded herself it took two months to be sure. But when the second month came and went with nary a spot of blood, Hawke steeled herself and sought out Lady Elegant, the most discrete herbalist she knew.

"This will end it," Elegant said, giving her a small, inconspicuous vial. "The sooner you take it the better. If you wait longer than three months you'll need to see a doctor for the procedure. I can recommend someone, if it comes to that."

"Are there side effects?" Hawke held the vial up to the light. The liquid was opaque.

"Cramps and bleeding. They shouldn't last longer than a few days."

Hawke was riddled with anxiety when she returned to the cottage late that night. She paced back and forth in the kitchen, the vial an uncomfortable lump in her pocket. She would drink the potion early the next morning after Cullen left for the Gallows. Yes, that would be best. Cullen didn't need to know unless something went wrong. Elegant had assured her complications were rare.

"When are you going to tell me?" Cullen asked. Hawke startled. He was standing in the doorway, arms crossed, still wearing his dress uniform. He'd been waiting for her.

"Tell you what?" Hawke asked miserably, wondering how long he'd been there.

"Don't lie to me."

Hawke rested her weight against the table. She drummed her fingers along the edge. "I'm pregnant," she said. It sounded strangely loud in the tiny cottage.

Cullen ran a hand through his hair. "I thought you took precautions for that." She did, of course, and his accusatory tone nettled.

"I thought lyrium caused sterilization," she shot back.

"It does eventually," he said. "Were you going to tell me?"

"There's nothing to tell." Hawke pushed away from the table. "I'll handle it."

"Don't be absurd," he said. "This isn't something you handle on your own. We need to talk about this."

So now Cullen wanted to talk. Time and time again, she'd prodded and cajoled and coaxed about any number of issues, but now, the one time she needed privacy, the one time she needed to handle something her way, he wanted to talk. A humorless smile that curled her lips. "Would you take our child to the Circle if it was a mage?"

"Yes," he said, without hesitation.

"Then there's nothing to talk about." She passed him in the hall and he grabbed her arm.

"This conversation isn't over, Marian."

"I've heard enough."

"What do you expect me to say? I won't lie to you. You know what I believe. Mages belong in the Circle. It's for their own protection."

She pushed him away. They stood face to face in the hallway, their backs to the walls. "How could you?" she asked. "Your own? Without even a thought? Why?"

"I've given it more than a thought. The child would be protected in the Circle. It would be safe, there would be other mages to—"

"Can you even hear yourself? Safe? Protected? Like the mages you protect now?"

He stiffened. "We do protect them."

"From everything but templar cock," she said, and he flinched.

"I don't know what rumors you've heard, but I would never allow any templar under my command—"

"Oh, you wouldn't allow it, would you?"

"Sweet Andraste, Marian! No, absolutely not, that's—"

"Like you didn't allow Alrik?"

Cullen's eyes darkened at the mention of the Knight-Lieutenant found dead under mysterious circumstances. Rumors of sexual misconduct and abuse had swirled around Alrik for years. "What do you know about Alrik?"

"More than you, evidently. Unless you're lying, and you knew what he was doing and you did nothing to stop it."

"I won't get into the complications of that investigation, it's not relevant to this discussion. Alrik isn't relevant. Consider Thrask."

"What about Thrask?" Hawke asked, certain where this would lead. Knight-Lieutenant Thrask's apostate daughter, whom he'd kept hidden from the Order, had become an abomination. Hawke kept Thrask's secret. She wasn't sure how Cullen found out about it.

"If Thrask brought his daughter to the Circle in the first place—"

"That is so unfair to him! You don't know that!"

"That girl would be alive if her father had done the right thing. He of all people…" Cullen's brow furrowed.

Hawke seized upon the moment of doubt. "Yes, Thrask of all people knows the state of the Gallows. He's an officer, he has influence and authority. Yet he chose not to report his daughter. He knew the Gallows wasn't safe, even then."

Cullen had already shaken off his doubts. "Thrask has difficulty carrying out difficult orders, unpleasant orders. He is too indulgent. I was made Knight-Captain precisely because I can be depended on carry out those tasks. We protect the mages. We keep them safe. We—"

"You can't protect anybody! If we have a baby you'll take it to the Circle and I'll never see it again! Meredith will have a claim on us both then, won't she? _Won't she? _The Champion's baby, hand-delivered by her own Knight-Captain! She'll be so proud of her second for remembering where his loyalties lie! Such a good templar! So obedient, so dutiful, never questioning, never—"

"Enough!" His hand curled into a fist at his side. "This is not your decision!"

Hawke drew up, straight-backed, refusing to be cowed. "Yes, it is! It became my decision when you confirmed what a terrible father you'll be!"

She expected him to turn away hurt, but his eyes only hardened. "Is that it? Your excuse is that I'll be a terrible father? You're afraid. You know you won't be able to run away and hide any longer, you'll be bound to me, and you'll have to stay here and make it work. You're afraid you'll have to give up your selfishness and commit to someone!"

His words caught in Hawke's throat and she had to swallow twice to get them down. "Selfish? I'm the selfish one? You bastard, _you took my sister_! You took the one person I cared about more than anyone! Your think your almighty _duty_ justifies every—" Her voice cracked. "I will do whatever it takes to keep another Hawke from the Circle. I accept the responsibility and I will deal with the consequences! Like I always do!"

"You're lecturing me about responsibilities and consequences? You're the one that always leaves! You're the one who turns heel and disappears for days at a time, even now, after everything. I kept telling myself that it would pass, but—Marian, you can't just leave when things become difficult. If you leave now, what am I supposed to think? What does that say about us?"

"This conversation is going nowhere," she said, turning to leave.

"Don't walk out," he said. "Not this time. Marian, this is too important."

"My mind's made up," she said, and he didn't try to stop her.

When Hawke returned to the estate Leandra began to question her at length, but Hawke claimed she was tired and escaped to her old bedchamber. She couldn't muster the will to tell her mother about the pregnancy. During her courtship with Vincent her mother routinely dropped hints about children. When Hawke's relationship with Cullen became more serious, Leandra's vocal interest in grandchildren conspicuously ended. Her mother's anger towards Cullen had thawed over the years, but Hawke knew what her advice would be and the reasons behind it.

Hawke sat on the bed, trying to collect her thoughts, but she was too anxious to sit still. She paced the room.

_Don't walk out._

The uncomfortable lump in her pocket made it difficult to concentrate. She dropped the vial on the bed.

_Not this time._

Her hand found its way to the enchanted ring on its chain, warm between her bare chest and her underpadding, and she ran her fingertips around the edge absently.

_This is too important._

She had not even asked Cullen if he wanted a child. She had only asked if he would take a mage child to the Circle. What if this was something he wanted? They had never spoken of children before. They'd never talked about the future of the relationship or starting a family. She'd avoided the subject because she knew the Circle would have be addressed, and once it was, all of the resentments about Bethany's imprisonment she had fought so hard to stifle would pour out. Her guilt, which had slowly begun to scab over time, would be scraped open anew.

_If you leave now, what am I supposed to think? What does that say about us?"_

Hawke pocketed the vial and went downstairs to kiss her mother goodnight.

"You're leaving?" Leandra asked.

"Might as well finish the argument now, rather than later," Hawke said carelessly. When she stepped off the stoop it was dark and chilly. She walked to the cottage along the shore, her boots crunching quietly on the hard-packed sand. The waves lapped at her heels, covering her footprints. She saw the cottage lights sooner than she anticipated; the distance seemed shorter than usual. She stomped the sand off her boots at the entryway and found the door unlocked.

They met in the hallway. Cullen was still wearing his dress uniform, which was uncharacteristically rumpled. Light flickered from his office. Hawke's mouth was dry. She licked her lips and braced herself, preparing for a storm. "I should have told you," she said. "As soon as I knew."

"You can't leave every time." His voice was surprisingly soft. She'd expected more anger. The gentleness of his tone eased her nerves.

"I know."

"You always leave me."

"I know." Hawke sat in the hall floor, her back to the wall.

Cullen sat beside her. "It might not be a mage," he said.

"My father, my sister…"

"Carver wasn't."

"Best two out of three?" She laughed. It wasn't her real laugh or her fake one, but something in the middle. "Your side?"

Cullen thought about it. "Probably." He'd been raised in the Chantry and rarely spoke of family, but Hawke knew many of the orphans adopted by the Chantry were the children of mage parents who had been arrested or killed. "That doesn't guarantee it would be a mage."

Hawke stared at the grouting, running her fingers through the neat canals. Cullen had laid the tiles perfectly. "Would you want to raise a child here?" she asked. "If it wasn't a mage?"

"Kirkwall is…" He didn't finish, but his dissatisfaction was clear. Kirkwall was not an ideal place to raise a family.

"I'm not ready for this," she told him. "I can't handle this. And it's not because I don't want to be tied to you, or…" Hawke rested her face in her hands. "Mother always wanted them, and I thought if it happened, and the man wanted them, I would do it and we could make it work, but… Maker, I don't want children. Not right now."

"Will you ever?" he asked.

Hawke shook her head. "I don't know." She forced herself to look away from the safety of the floor tiles into his eyes. "Do you want children?"

He was choosing his words carefully. "I never felt that was my path," he said. "I wouldn't want you to feel pressured based on my saying so. But when I pledged myself to the Order, it was with the expectation I would never be in a position to have a family." She was not surprised. He'd always been so career-driven, so focused on his work, and he'd never expressed any interest in having children.

Hawke let out a slow breath. "Neither of us is ready for a baby," she said. Cullen nodded. "You were so upset, I started to think maybe you did want one. And I—I had to make sure."

"I was angry because I wanted to discuss it and decide together. I didn't want you to feel you had to make the decision alone or I wouldn't shoulder my part of the responsibility for it." He hesitated. "And I wanted to make sure you weren't ending it simply because… you didn't want to be tied to me." He glanced away, briefly. "I wouldn't want you to end it if a child was something you truly wanted. It's not—as I said, I didn't imagine fatherhood as part of my path. But we could make it work, if you wanted it. We could always make it work. I firmly believe that."

"I'm not ready," she said.

Cullen nodded again. "Neither am I." Hawke felt a weird sense of relief, but her guts still twisted in her stomach. What if this changed things? What if this came between them later?

Cullen cleared his throat, uncertain. "Ah, should I…?"

"Oh," she said. "No, I…" She showed him the vial.

He nodded. "Will you come to bed?" he asked. She nodded, and when he held out his hand to help her to her feet, she took it.

She drank the potion alone in the bathroom. The liquid was thick and bitter with no aftertaste. Cullen kept the light on until she settled in bed beside him. She buried herself in the blankets. She didn't sleep. She was still worried how things between them might change. An hour before dawn she felt the mattress move as Cullen rose to dress. She peeked out of the blankets and found his routine was the same as always. He armored briskly, securing the heavy plate with practiced gestures. He briefly inspected his face in the mirror, rubbing his hand against his cheek, and decided he could go another day without shaving. He checked the pocket under his chest plate, his hand lingering a moment longer than usual.

Hawke shut her eyes but was still too anxious to sleep. She heard the familiar clank of plate. She opened an eye. His shadow loomed over her side of the bed in the dim morning light. "Cullen," she said, with a sigh. She wanted to be left alone.

He knelt. "I love you," he said distinctly into her ear.

She shoved the blankets aside and grabbed his face, kissing him hard. It was more of a crush of lips and noses than a kiss. He endured it, shifting his weight to keep his balance, and stroked her hair with gauntleted fingers.

Later that day, there was a rumble of cramps followed by spots of blood. She waited for complications, but there were none. She rooted around for regrets, but found only hazy disquiet and fleeting speculation about what might have been. If she'd made the decision alone without him, without knowing how he felt, she would have truly regretted it. As it was, it was their shared choice.

Hawke meditated on the beach, packing away and clearing all the thoughts that had accumulated in her mind, and was finally able to relax. She watched as the surf relentlessly pounded the shore. She touched the lucky ring on its chain and found it warm from her body heat and comfortingly smooth against her fingertips. She decided they should have no secrets.


	11. Chapter 11

The shift in power was slow and inevitable. Knight-Commander Meredith tightened her grip, using her influence to continue stalling the election of a new Viscount and infringe upon the Kirkwall Guard's jurisdiction, and the Champion was increasingly called upon to settle disputes, apply subtle (and less than subtle) leverage, and serve as a go-between for the nobility, the Chantry, the city, and the Order.

Hawke was not a diplomat or a politician, but she had an intuitive understanding of people and a shrewd business sense. The nobility had previously dismissed her as a reckless, uncultured foreigner with new money and an old title that she didn't know what to do with. But these days, with Meredith pounding on every door and no Viscount in sight, a feisty warrior-turned-Champion was a prized ally. The nobles came to appreciate her pragmatism, her willingness to get her hands dirty, and the convenient moving target she provided for Meredith's ire.

The people of Kirkwall had always loved the version of Hawke that Varric spun in his tall tales. They had great pride in their scrappy, wild-natured Champion. More importantly, they trusted her. When Hawke said the Order was abusing its authority and had no business in governance, the people believed her, and their support bolstered her influence as much as her wealth and noble connections.

These days, it was not uncommon for Hawke to march into the Gallows like she owned the place. But on this particular day she strode past the First Enchanter's office on the left and the Knight-Commander's office on the right and went straight to the Knight-Captain's office at the end of the hall. She found it empty and proceeded to the barracks, earning an apprehensive look from the guard posted there.

"Where is my—" She caught herself before she said a word that, while true in spirit, was not technically accurate. She shook it off. "Where is the Knight-Captain?"

The templar shuffled. "The Knight-Captain is resting, Champion."

"Where?"

"With all due respect—"

"Take me to him."

"He said he wasn't to be disturb—"

"Now."

It was a tribute to Hawke's status that the templar meekly submitted and led her to Cullen's quarters in the officer's barracks. He lifted an armored fist to knock and when Cullen opened the door, Hawke pushed in and pulled the door shut behind her. Immediately, they were alone in silence; the thick stone walls insulated the room from all outside sound.

Cullen blinked at her, his hand still resting on the knob. His trousers and tunic were wrinkled. His armor was on the stand and his dress uniform was neatly folded over the back of a chair. "You shouldn't be here," he said. Hawke crossed her arms. He tried again. "Meredith—"

"I've heard enough about Meredith Stannard to last me the rest of my life."

Cullen blinked again. He was still waking up. "Meredith does not approve of me living off the grounds. She does not approve of me living with you. And she most definitely does not approve of you invading the officer barracks." This was new information. Hawke gathered from the way Meredith's eyes flicked between them that did not approve of the relationship, but she'd always assumed Cullen had gotten permission to live at the cottage. "Are you trying to provoke her?"

"I have to see you," she said.

He rubbed his face. "There's no time. Tomorrow, maybe."

Tomorrow, _maybe_? She hadn't seen him in a week. Cullen's nights at the Gallows had grown so long he now slept in the officer's barracks out of necessity. Hawke didn't like coming home to an empty house, so she'd moved back to the Amell estate in the hopes she might find more opportunities to see him, but frequently her bed was cold. She didn't like sleeping in a cold bed. She didn't like the way the cottage on the beach was always shuttered and dark. She didn't like how they always found themselves on opposing sides in every public argument. She was tired. She was angry. She was frustrated. She said, "No. Now."

"It will have to wait," he said, reaching past her to open the door.

She didn't say she missed him, or that she needed him, or that she was terrified they were drifting apart, or that she feared the ideological divide was driving a wedge between them might sever the relationship irrevocably. Instead, she grabbed his wrist.

Cullen's eyes met hers. They stood scant inches apart. "Did you come here to fight?" he asked. His tone was lower, rougher. It reminded her of those early days, when the rivalry and lust crackling between them constantly threatened to ignite.

She pressed his palm to her breast.

The tiny smile that crept through his tiredness and irritation made her heart quicken, just as it always had. He gave a short, controlled squeeze. "Beg for what you want," he said, "and I may take it into consideration."

She'd expected this. An intense struggle for dominance now underlaid all their intimate moments. It was tempting to take the easy road, to obey and beg, to let him control the encounter, but she increasingly found she wanted more, _needed_ more—more control, more dominance. She wanted him her way, by her rules. "I won't beg this time," she said.

Without warning, Cullen grabbed her and threw her onto the bed. She bounced and twisted on her side, but he grabbed her leg, dragging her towards him. He flipped her on her back, seizing her wrists tightly with one hand, and pinned her to the mattress with his weight. She jerked her head to the side, and he grabbed her by the hair, turning her face to look at him.

"Beg, messere," he said. There was a quiet intensity she hadn't heard in some time. It wasn't just the lack of intimacy. It was stress, tiredness… and something else. She wasn't the only one who needed to blow off steam.

"I'm going to pin you down," she said.

"Wrong words, messere," he said, his voice rougher still. He let go of her hair and reached down, yanking open her trousers with two sharp tugs. He jerked them partway down her thighs—not all the way, just enough to grant him access.

"I'm going to whisper all the things I intend to do to you," she said, pushing against his hold on her wrists.

He shoved his hand between her legs. She barely stifled her moan when he touched her. She wiggled her hips, but he used his body weight to hold her down. "Start with yes," he said patiently.

"I'm going to make you come whether you're ready or not," she managed.

He traced his fingers firmly over her clitoris. "Follow with please…"

Her eyelashes fluttered. "You won't even get a chance to touch me," she said. "It will just be my hands on you. And you won't care. Nothing else will matter."

He was trying to ignore her. "…End with Knight-Captain," he said, and slid two fingers inside her. Hawke's hips instinctively rolled towards him. She struggled to control her breathing. "Beg," he repeated. He curled his fingers and her control slipped, along with a moan.

She bit her lip, pushing past the immediate arousal and summoning her willpower. "You can't control me."

He withdrew his fingers and she automatically lifted her hips to follow before she could stop herself. "Wrong again, messere," he said softly.

She licked her lips, her face hot and flushed. "Don't confuse your need to feel in control with actual control."

Cullen unfastened his trousers. She tried to maintain eye contact, but when he tugged his pants down her eyes were drawn there. He was hard and virile in the dim light and her lips parted in anticipation. Her body thrummed with need, but it was different this time. A part of her wanted to feel him sinking into her, filling her, pinning her down and fucking her senseless, but another part, a more immediate part, wanted to force sounds from him, to feel him writhe under her touch. "If you want me," he said quietly, dragging his cock slowly between her legs, "You'll beg the way you were taught."

"And if I don't?" she said, when she trusted her voice. He pushed up against her until his penis was on the verge of penetration and stopped. She panted slightly, she couldn't help it, and said, "As soon as I get loose I will make you come." A statement of fact.

Cullen pushed into her and Hawke moaned, arching. It had been too long. There were too many emotions coursing through her. She was torn between hanging on and keeping her promises or giving in and letting him to pound her into sweet oblivion. Cullen waited, sheathed inside her, his breathing heavy. "Ask," he said, and for the first time, there was a hint of frustration in his voice. "Beg. Tell me you want it. Tell me you need me. Say _yes_, say _please_."

Hawke's body was on fire. She struggled to keep her composure. She would not yield. He could not control everything and he certainly couldn't control her. "I already told you what I'm going to do to you," she said.

Abruptly, he pulled out and it was all she could do not to whimper. He flipped her over and pushed her face into the mattress. She squirmed, testing his hold on her wrists, but it was still ironclad. He reached across the bed and she suspected what he was doing. His touch a moment later confirmed it. He ran a slicked finger between her legs, making her shiver, and without preamble, he pushed his finger into her ass. Her noise of surprise blended into a moan. He leaned forward and licked. Hawke bit into the sheets.

"Beg, messere," he repeated, pressing the hot, oil-slicked head of his cock against her. "Beg for what you want."

"You want the Champion of Kirkwall writhing beneath you, moaning your name, begging for your cock so you can dominate and take control and tell yourself that you're in charge, even as everything goes to the Voi—"

Cullen sank into her, all oil and heat, and the words died in her throat as she quivered beneath him. He began to thrust. His strokes were generous and long; they both enjoyed sex this way and her body readily accommodated him now. She could feel her control weakening, as it always did when his slick, hard length was rolling in and out of her ass. Normally, this was when she would surrender to him. The position, the psychology of it, the oil; the combination was conducive to slipping away, letting go, yielding. But this time, as she panted, her breath catching with each rolling thrust, she wrenched control back. He was trying to show that he could control her body and make her come, no matter how hard she resisted. She was determined to turn the game around on him. She had an inkling that Cullen knew a great deal more about anal sex than what he'd shown her.

"Do you like the way it looks when you take the Champion like this?" she asked. "Do you like how powerful it makes you feel? Do you like knowing that whatever I do in public, in private you can bend me over and take me?"

He didn't answer, but she felt his hand tighten on her wrists.

"Do you imagine what it feels like to be taken?" she asked.

His grip tightened further.

"Do you fantasize about being taken by me?" she asked. He faltered. He grabbed her hair, pulling hard. She kept going. "Do you imagine being forced down on your hands and knees? Do you imagine me stroking your cock while I fuck you from behind?" She heard his breath quicken. He changed the angle, pushing her farther down, and slowed his speed. Normally, this reduced her to a writhing mass within seconds, but she wasn't going to give in, not this time.

"I know you," she said. "I know what you need and I intend to give it to you." She'd come to suspect he had certain needs that he couldn't or wouldn't articulate. As the world around them fell apart his need for physical domination increased. His insistence on taking her from behind, on always being dominant and on top, on making her submit and tell him all the things he needed to hear, had intensified. The more she resisted and tried to share dominance, the more he pushed back. Cullen was clinging to the illusion of control in a world that was increasingly out of control. Hawke understood the catharsis of submission and she was going to show it to him.

"I know you need to let go," she said.

His grip on her wrists loosened. Before he could respond she jerked to the side and broke free. He grabbed for her and she hooked her legs around him. Later, she would not be sure if she had truly overpowered him or if he had already unconsciously yielded, but regardless, they fell off the bed onto the hard, cold stone floor. There was a brief struggle and she pinned him down, forcing him on his back. She pressed her forearm against his neck, restricting his airflow, and grasped his cock.

He stilled, tense in her grip. Before, any submissiveness on his part had merely been a willingness to let her assume direction. An act for the sake of the game, a type of roleplay. It had never been true submission because Cullen was always in a position to retake control. Now, that was no longer the case.

They were both covered with sweat and heaving, their pants down around their thighs. She gave his cock a long, slow stroke. He was ramrod hard and slick with oil—exactly what she wanted. "Let go," she said, stroking sedately.

He stayed tense, every muscle coiled, but he didn't try to fight her or get away. She knew things had happened to him in the past, things that were out of his control, and this was potentially dangerous territory. But she knew him, maybe better than anyone, and she trusted her instincts. She pulled her arm away from his neck so he could breathe more freely. She slid her oiled fingers over his testicles and down, between the cleft of his buttocks, maintaining contact so he would always know where her hand was.

He flinched when she reached that spot. She thought he might break away or try to roll and pin her, but he didn't. She rubbed in slow circles, much as he had done her first time. He relaxed slightly and let out a ragged breath. She edged his legs apart, moving down until she had full access to him. She lowered her face as she rubbed and licked, mimicking the way he'd licked her in the past, noting the subtle shift in his breathing. She liked his reaction and kept doing it, changing the movements of her lips and tongue. Eventually she slid a finger into him, drawing a soft groan.

Again, she mirrored the way he had always touched her, moving her finger slowly in and out, and as his breath quickened, his body relaxed further. She took his cock in her hand and began to stroke. He was still trying to maintain control, she could tell by the furrow and sweat on his brow, and she kissed his inner thigh and said, "Let me. Let go."

He sighed: acquiescence. She kept stroking his cock, kept touching him, adding a second finger, then another, watching his eyes flutter shut and his hands clench against the stone tiles.

When she felt the time was right, she said, "Come for me," and he broke apart in her hands. It was the only way to describe the range of expression that cycled across his face. Release followed, swiftly and surely. When he came, his entire body seized, as though some band pulled impossibly taunt had finally snapped. The sound that escaped him could only be described as a moan in the loosest sense—it was a primal noise, a release of tensions that had been a long time in coming. She knew she would never fully understand what this meant to him and she did not try. She merely rubbed his thigh reassuringly.

Cullen rolled over on his side and covered his face with his hand. He didn't bother with his trousers. He didn't get embarrassed often, but Hawke knew the signs.

"Are you all right?" Hawke asked.

He nodded.

"Did I hurt you?" she asked tentatively.

"No," he said finally. To her relief, he added, "Maybe next time." He glanced at the floor and the flare of ejaculate across the tiles. Hawke crawled over him and burrowed into his arms, oblivious to sweat and cum and grit and the cold floor, and his softening cock dribbled the last little bit onto her bared upper thigh. She tugged at his trousers and he shifted his hips so she could pull them up and fasten the buttons. She attempted to smooth his tunic before she hitched up her leggings. He intercepted her hands and laced them for her, tightening the strings with care.

Someone knocked sharply on the door, two taps. Cullen tensed. "I can stand back," she said, moving to sit. She wasn't willing to hide, but she could be inconspicuous.

Cullen caught her wrist. "No," he said, skimming his hand lightly up her forearm. His touch tickled the hairs on her arm. She sat on the bed and wiped her hands on her leggings before attempting to smooth her hair. She thought Cullen would take a moment to make himself more presentable, but he didn't. He slid the bolt and opened the door.

One day in the early summer the world was shaken. Bethany was kidnapped and held hostage. Hawke rescued her, but only after bloodying her hands. She was seething when she returned to the Amell estate late that evening. She couldn't believe her sister had been abducted right under Cullen's nose. Cullen, for his part, was furious to find Hawke at a gathering of mage and templar insurrectionists intending to overthrow the Knight-Commander.

Hawke paced in front of the fireplace, sorely in need of a bath and sleep but too irritated for either. She had taken for granted that her title, her mother's influence, and her relationship with Cullen would keep Bethany safe. She had taken for granted that the templars under Cullen's command would protect the Champion's sister. Perhaps this was what made her angriest. Cullen arrested her sister under the pretense of protecting her and he failed. As turmoil between the Circle mages and the Order continued to fester the Gallows became increasingly unsafe. What if the rumor that Meredith had requested the Right of Annulment from Val Royeaux, seeking permission to cleanse the Circle by killing all the mages within it, _wasn't_ a rumor? If there was a schism in the Order, and Meredith believed she might be overthrown by an insurrectionist group that included mages, would she invoke the right?

Hawke was surprised when she heard Bodahn open the front door and greet Cullen. She'd assumed he'd be busy dealing with the mess the insurrectionists had left behind. She planted her hands squarely on her hips and waited. He found her that way in the great room.

"Taking the night off?" she asked. "You think that's wise, considering you can't trust your people to perform their most basic responsibilities?"

"I don't need your attitude," he said. "I need your support."

"You'll get my support when you've earned it," she countered. "They've been plotting this for months. How could you not know?"

"Marian, I can't be everywhere at once," he said. "We knew there was some dissent in the ranks, but who could anticipate this level of insubordination? And from Thrask, of all people." He rubbed his forehead wearily.

"People are desperate," Hawke said, seeing an opening. She had always liked Thrask and she knew that the loss of such a prominent moderate Lieutenant would have a ripple-effect through the ranks. "Meredith's not fit to lead right now. She's under too much pressure." Years ago, Hawke would have described Meredith as a power-grabbing tyrant, but she had learned a great deal about the delicate spider's web of politics during her tenure as Champion. She never attacked Meredith directly now, especially not in front of Cullen. "You know her better than anyone. You know the stress she's under. You know she's making poor decisions—"

He held up a gauntleted hand. No matter how reasonable her arguments were, the hand always came up when Meredith was involved. "No, I don't want to hear it. After everything she's done for this city, if she had some morsel of support, of thanks, she wouldn't be so paranoid. She sees enemies everywhere because they are everywhere, Marian, everywhere she turns, a magistrate or the Guard or the Champion is there to knock her down. She will listen to reason if she's treated with respect. This schism will only fuel her fears. I know she can be persuaded, I only need time. If you show her your support, if you show that you respect her opinion and will listen, and that you don't support the First Enchanter blindly, it will go a long way."

"I don't support Orsino blindly. I'm the only one willing to work with him anymore and he's the only thing standing between the Circle mages and Meredith."

"That's not true," he said, exasperated.

"Who else stands up to her? _You_?" Cullen frowned, a warning sign for sure, but Hawke plunged ahead. "You always follow orders in the end. You voice your concerns, but you still carry out the order. You always have. Someone has to stand up to her. At least Orsino is trying to protect my sister's interests."

"Marian, I have always protected Bethany's interests."

Anger rose up like a serpent in her gut, red hot and hissing. "Like you protected her today? Like you protected her when a group of templars took her from her bed at night and held her hostage and almost slit her throat?"

"Sweet Andraste, I can't be everywhere at once!" he said. He said this whenever she cornered him about rumors of abuse, bribes, and harassment in the ranks. "I told you, I will handle it. This will not stand, I—"

"Would you do it again?" she asked abruptly, recognizing that the detour into a more personal argument was folly and not caring. "Knowing what you know now, would you still take Bethany to the Gallows?"

"You know I would," he said.

She stared at him. "You mean to to tell me after everything that's happened, after what the Gallows has become, you would still lock my baby sister up in that dungeon of yours?"

"_Baby sister_? Marian, Bethany is a grown woman. You fancy you would have protected her? I beg to differ. You would have continued to coddle her like a child, like the 'baby' you believe her to be, until the day something finally went wrong and she—"

"You don't know what's best for her!" she said. "You don't know what's best for them!"

"It isn't only about what's best for them, it's about what's best for everyone! There are a million ways an apostate can fall and only one way they can be preserved! There is a city full of people who—"

"Do you really think the Order's propaganda will work on me?"

He became truly angry, then. "Propaganda? You've seen what happens when a mage turns to blood magic, when a mage becomes an abomination. You've seen how powerful they are. You've seen how many they kill. This is not paranoia, Marian. Not on my part and not on Meredith's. It's not a perfect system but it is the system we have. I will not have this argument with you yet again, it goes nowhere. Mages must be contained."

"Not all mages," she said. "Only the ones that can't fight back. Only the ones that can't afford the bribes." She'd often wondered how she might have changed Bethany's fate. If she'd returned from the Deep Roads expedition sooner, if she'd had time to become established with their new wealth, would it have been enough to buy Bethany's freedom? If she'd taken Bethany with her, would the months-long absence stalled the investigation leading to her arrest?

Hawke replayed the memory in her mind. The expedition's return had been delayed by weeks and her family had begun to fear the worst. She remembered Leandra's surprise and delight on her unannounced return. She remembered Bethany's surprise mingled with something else—perhaps anger, because of Hawke's broken promise to take Bethany on the expedition. She remembered thinking how beautiful Bethany was dressed in her best frock, her dark hair coiffed.

She remembered the reunion being interrupted by a knock at the door. She remembered her mother answering and quickly backing away as Cullen entered the house. She remembered meeting Cullen's eyes and watching his brow arch slightly before his gaze became hard and determined. She remembered her mother falling to her knees, begging Cullen not to take away her youngest daughter. She remembered Gamlen rambling, offering bribes and favors, asking the templars to come back another day, until Cullen cut him off with a short wave of his hand. All the while, Bethany stood tall, her fingers trembling against her skirt, as she faced her fate.

"Mistress Bethany, I've come to take you to the Circle," Cullen said. Bethany was no longer surprised. She was nervous, afraid, apprehensive… but not surprised. Cullen took her arm.

This was the part of the recollection that slowed down. Hawke remembered seeing Cullen's gauntleted fingers closing around Bethany's bare forearm and realizing that in an instant, all those years of running from the templars in Ferelden, all those years of hiding, of moving from place to place, of being careful and cautious, were for nothing. She barely survived the Dark Roads and the legions of darkspawn within only to see her little sister dragged away to the Gallows. Anger surged through her, pure and blistering. She stepped up to Cullen and stared him in the face unflinching, unwilling to back down.

She realized she was looking at him that way now and he had responded exactly as he had that fateful day: by stepping forward, moving closer, meeting her gaze directly. He was meeting her unspoken challenge, as he always did. "What do you want from me, Marian?" he was saying. "Do you want an apology from me? Bethany is her own woman with her own life and she's made her own choices and she'll deal with the consequences. She has accepted that; you have not. Is this about her or is it about you?"

"It doesn't matter what you say," she told him, her voice rising with each word. "It doesn't matter what you do. You can never change the fact that I loved her and you took her from me. I can't get over it, I can't forget it. And I—" _Can never trust you._ It was a curious thing, the way that little box sprang open. There was a time when Hawke would have blurted out its contents, swinging her anger as heavy and wide as her broadsword, but that time had passed. Instead, she sat back on her heels, and the last piece clicked into place.

All those hours spent in meditating on the beach and mediating disputes had lent her a degree of introspection. She had never truly forgiven Cullen for arresting her sister. She pushed her resentment and anger deep down below the surface so she wouldn't have to confront it, because she didn't want to confront it. In the beginning, when their relationship was purely physical, she wanted sex and she wanted him, and she made justifications to herself as she neatly bottled her anger and set it aside. Later, as she became more entangled with him, she kept the bottle corked. Cullen always avoided any conversation about Bethany and it was easy to look the other way. But when Bethany was taken from her bed and held hostage, the cork was finally popped. Hawke's anger came shrieking back, fresh and hot and raw, raising blisters on her skin and revealing something else: her guilt.

Cullen had arrested her sister and imprisoned her in the Gallows. In spite of that, Hawke had slept with him, she'd fallen in love with him, she'd shared the most intimate parts of herself with him, she'd built a life with him. Every step of the way, whenever a tiny voice whispered, "But what about Bethany?" she smothered it, looking away. As the relationship progressed, and lust transmuted to love, the whispers became more dangerous and were smothered more tightly until Hawke scarcely heard them at all. And that was exactly the way she preferred it.

Hawke had a life and a home, things her sister would never have, and she shared them with the man who had a key role in ending Bethany's freedom. It did not matter that Meredith would have sent another officer on Cullen's refusal. It did not matter that Bethany herself said she found a place in the Circle and that she would have turned herself in eventually. All that mattered was the fact that Bethany should have gotten the opportunity to share Hawke's life. Bethany should have been courting. Bethany should have befriended men like Vincent and women like Cicely. Bethany should have had opportunities to invest or love or manage or politick or have children or do nothing—yes, even _do nothing. _To putter about in the mansion on lazy days, to brunch with their mother, to attend parties or grouse about them, to buy dresses and frilly hats, to drink at the Hanged Man. To kiss Isabela in dark corners, to drink with Fenris, to swap stories with Varric, to walk with Merrill, to irritate Aveline, to annoy Anders. Bethany should have had the opportunity for all of those things and instead she was locked in a cage on an island surrounded by chains and she was going to die a prisoner.

Each time a Hawke was faced with a choice, a commitment, or a gesture of trust, she balked. She blamed it on Lothering, on her nature, on fate. She blamed it on the prophecy that hovered over her, the perpetual moment to leap that she was never quite sure had arrived. She avoided acknowledging the truth: she had never forgiven Cullen for arresting her sister and she had never forgiven herself for falling in love with him.

"Marian?" Cullen asked.

"I can't trust you," she whispered. "I can't trust you to protect my family. I can't trust you to protect me. If you have to choose, you won't choose us."

Silence hung thick and heavy between them.

Finally, he said, "I do what I believe is right. I have always tried to do what I believe is right. I can't shirk my duty, even if I know it will hurt you. You have to understand."

"I will do whatever it takes to protect my family, because that's what I believe is right." She looked at him. "I might not choose you, either."

He looked away. "I can't promise I won't hurt you," he said. "I can't apologize for the past. I can only promise that I will try to do what I believe is right. It is my duty to protect the Circle. From itself, from the world, and from the Order. I need your support. I need you to trust that I will do the right thing. I need…" He licked his lips, his brow furrowed, his shoulders tense. "I need you to believe in me."

Hawke didn't answer. She couldn't. Cullen had never stood up to Meredith, as far as she knew. She did not know how much support he had, she only knew that when there was in insurrection he had been carefully circumnavigated as a liability. She knew his desire to control in the bedroom, he need for sexual dominance, stemmed in part from a lack of control and dominance in his daily life. She suspected this was why Meredith had promoted him; he always followed orders and would never command enough loyalty to pose a threat to her authority.

"Marian." Cullen tried to gather her into his arms, but she pressed her hand against his chest plate and the Sword of Mercy emblazoned there. She stared at the shape of her gloved hand pushing back against the smooth plate, unwilling to meet his eyes.

"It's too late," she told him. She had no idea how right she was. The next day, the world was torn apart.

After the destruction of the Chantry and the subsequent drawing of a line in the sand, Hawke found herself caught between Knight-Commander Meredith and First Enchanter Orsino for the last time. She heard Orsino pleading for the lives of the mages, but he sounded very far away, as if he were across some chasm. She heard Meredith arguing that the citizenry would demand blood for the murder of the Grand Cleric. Again, it sounded very far away. All she could think of was Bethany. If the Right of Annulment was carried out, every mage in the Circle would be executed. If the Right of Annulment was carried out, Bethany would die. When she looked at Bethany where she stood at Orsino's side, she saw her sister's grim determination, and under that, cold, stark fear.

Hawke had to pick a side and she had to pick it now.

Meredith's glacial blue gaze bore into her as though she were peeling away layers, seeking, waiting. Hawke thought back to the insurrectionists. There were templars willing to defy Meredith. There were moderate templars who were willing to fight alongside mages, templars who believed that a Viscount should be elected, templars who felt that the Order should stand back from city governance. Those templars were the ones who would be ordered to carry out the Right and they were the ones she needed to sway. Not Meredith. She could never sway Meredith. She needed to sway the templars, the officers and knights and recruits.

All this time, Marian Hawke had been waiting for the ground to shake. She'd been waiting to jump. Now, under the eyes of her sister and her friends and all the rest, it was time. Hawke leapt.

"You have a Champion," she told Meredith.

The ferry chugged slowly across the bay. Fog clung to the boat and the water. In the hazy distance, the Gallows was illuminated intermittently by explosions. Hawke glanced at Aveline, whose jaw was set, her eyes forward. They were crossing alone without additional reinforcements from the Guard. Aveline had ordered her people to maintain order and attend the disaster area.

Beside her, Bethany sat silently, her fingers laced. If it had been an act of faith for Hawke to side with the templars, it was doubly so for Bethany to abandon the First Enchanter and side with her sister. There were so many things Hawke wanted to say to her, but there would never be enough time.

"I love you," Hawke said.

"I hope you know what you're doing," Bethany said.

"I love you," Hawke repeated plaintively, reaching for her sister's arm. Aveline and Varric exchanged glances. Isabela blinked rapidly and turned away.

"I know," Bethany said, her voice steady and calm, staring at the silhouette of the Gallows as the fog began to break.

A strange stillness fell over the Gallows courtyard in the hour before the breach. It was not quiet. Fires burned and crackled, the wounded moaned, armor clanked. The templars passed lyrium amongst themselves as they prepared to breach the main gates and kill the mages barricaded inside. They anticipated several waves in the outer yards. Knight-Lieutenant Lena advised them to expect sacrifices—mages that purposefully turned abomination or resorted to blood magic out of desperation. The other lieutenants thought the more experienced mages would be on the front lines and the apprentices would be waiting deeper in the Gallows, but Lena thought the apprentices would sacrifice themselves as battle fodder to reduce templar numbers so the senior enchanters could attack from a distance and maintain the chain of leadership. Hawke suspected Lena was right. They would be confronting apprentices—many young, most inexperienced—as soon as they breached the gates.

On the far side of the courtyard, Cullen and Meredith were in deep conversation. Cullen spoke with his hands palm up, a placating gesture, and Meredith shook her head, the light glinting off her circlet.

"This could be the end of our story, Hawke," Varric said.

Hawke watched Cullen gesture again, and again, Meredith shook her head.

"No," Hawke said. "Not yet."

Hawke's trust in First Enchanter Orsino had been misplaced. She knew it the moment he slit open his palm, using the blood that welled up and the corpses of the dead mages all around him to transform into an abomination. "No," Bethany moaned, powerless as the dead flesh swirled and merged. "No, no, no, no…"

When the battle ended, Hawke stomped the abomination's face into a pulp on the stone floor. Adrenaline pounded in her ears and heart, coursing through her body. After everything, after all those months of mediation and talks, none of it mattered. Orsino had sacrificed his own people and turned to blood magic, the very thing Meredith had warned against. Many templars were dead and it was impossible for Hawke to be sure how many of them were still loyal to their Commander.

It was all a sodding mess.

Bethany shivered beside her, and a moment later, she heard the Knight-Commander's voice. "The magic within them is a disease," Meredith said. "It must be purified." Her voice was loud in large hall. Hawke turned, saw Meredith's eyes on her sister and reacted instinctively. The adrenaline pulsing through her body went straight to her hand. She drew her sword.

_You'll have to go through me._

Meredith's eyes flicked from Bethany to Hawke, and for the barest moment, a strange sort of understanding passed over her features. But then it was gone, smoothed over and erased. "Very well. Meet me outside."

When Meredith was gone, Bethany embraced her, and Hawke trembled in her sister's arms. She wanted to collapse into the hug and be comforted, but it was not over. Orsino was dead, most of the mages were dead, and the courtyard was full of templars. It was far from over.

"Stay here," Hawke said. "Look for…" _Survivors?_ Hawke almost laughed.

"Should we try to escape?" Bethany asked. "Should we try to defend?"

Hawke did not have an answer.

Marian Hawke was going to die. That was the only thought she had when she looked down the blade of Meredith's pulsing red lyrium sword. Templars bristling with weapons surrounded her. Meredith was going to kill her and control history. Hawke had leapt; evidently, she would not fly.

Hawke was only partially processing sensory input at this point. She was still in war-mode, her senses heightened and alert, her body reacting on pure instinct. She heard the words, "Stand down," and knew they came from Cullen. She heard Cullen before he stepped in front of her, his sword drawn at long last against his Commander.

"You'll have to go through me," he said.

In the later jumble of memories and sensations, when she tried to sort out the chaos of those last moments, those words would always spring to her mind. You'll have to go through me. You'll have to go through me. You'll have to go through me. You have me. You. Me.

Meredith's body was engulfed in an unholy red flame. When the fire died down, a charred, twisted husk was all that remained. Hawke stared at it, transfixed, until she heard the rustle and clank of plate and saw the templars had now turned their attention from their fallen leader to her. She felt Aveline press against her back. She felt something brush her empty hand, someone's thigh, Isabela's thigh. She squeezed, maybe to be reassuring, or maybe just reacting. Isabela exhaled.

She met Cullen's eyes. Wordlessly, he dropped to his knee. There was a moment of uncertainty, but the surviving templars followed suit. All of them.

Hawke was abuzz with war and energy. She gazed down at him, her eyes glassy, her face a mask of blood and sweat. They were all bloody and sweaty, smeared with the dead. All around them, the Gallows burned, and beyond the expanse of water and the great chains, Kirkwall waited for answers.

Those present would later decide something unspoken must have passed between them or that Cullen uttered something that reached the Champion's ears alone. When Hawke finally spoke, it was to say, "Yes, Knight-Commander."


	12. Epilogue

Viscountess Hawke laughed. It did not contain the same warmth as it would have a year prior, but it was genuine. She sat at the head of the table, rosy-cheeked from wine, and traded easy banter with the nobles seated around her.

"Have you given Starkhaven's proposal consideration?" Magistrate Donnell asked. A year prior, Knight-Commander Cullen would have had a visibly negative reaction to this question. Now, he merely observed the exchange with polite boredom, glancing casually at the wall clock.

Hawke took a deliberate sip of her wine. "I have," she said. The marriage questions never ended, but she always handled the subject gracefully.

"And?" Messere Galleria asked.

"I'm still considering," Hawke said, with a winsome smile.

"We heard the Prince was planning a visit," Messere Forsythe said, eager to glean any fresh bit of gossip.

"I cannot confirm that," Hawke demurred. She had been playing this game with the nobility for some weeks now, teasing them with the prospect of a union between Kirkwall and Starkhaven in an effort to placate noises about Kirkwall's instability within the Free Marches.

Eventually, the conversation dwindled, and the guests began to trickle back out into Hightown. Hawke stayed at the table until the last few had risen to leave and took her glass as she followed them to the foyer for farewells. When she returned to the great room she found Cullen leaning against the wall, waiting.

"You will never escape the shackles of courtship, your Grace."

Hawke drained her glass in response. He gently extricated the glass, putting it aside, and ran his fingers through her hair. She'd begun to grow it out. Bran insisted longer hair looked more stately. "Cullen," she said. He dropped his hand. He looked out the window. Hawke touched his cheek, turning his face back to her. "I've missed you."

"I certainly hope so." It was a playful remark, but the underlying tension was undeniable.

"Where have you been?" she asked. He was preparing for Val Royeaux's inquest, she knew, but he'd been particularly distant since their last meeting.

"I sold the cottage," he said quietly. Hawke lifted her chin to look at him more directly. "I kept wanting… to go back." He shook his head. Hawke wished she had something, some memento, but perhaps it was just as well. He was right, they could never go back. She would have to be content with the memory. "All this talk of Sebastian…" he began.

She pressed her thumb firmly to his lips. "This is our time," she said, drawing him down for a kiss. When she pulled away, she said, "I should have another glass, I think."

"No, your Grace."

"Not even one?"

"Definitely not."

"But it makes me so charming…"

"Not as charming as you think."

She laughed and linked her arm in his, tugging him close. "Will you put me to bed?" she murmured.

"Was there any question?" he asked. She led him down the long hall, her arm in his, and up the stairs. The mabari hound looked up from where she lay in front of the bedchamber door. Her stump of a tail began wagging when she saw Cullen and she moved to rise. "A bit of privacy, if you don't mind," Hawke said, and the mabari whuffed softly and dropped her head back to her forepaws again.

Hawke paused at the vanity to remove her jewelry. Cullen crossed the room to the window and opened it. The Gallows stood irresolute as always, silhouetted below Hightown on the horizon. Cullen pulled the curtain across the window, obscuring the view. The night breeze ruffled the cloth.

Hawke sat on the edge of the bed, but made no move to undress. When he turned to her, she tapped her knee. He gave her that small smile, the one that still managed to set her heart aflutter after all these years, and knelt next to her, putting his heavy hand on her knee with a light squeeze. He rested his face against her thigh. His cheek was warm through the cloth.

"I have something for you, Knight-Commander," she said, combing her fingers through his hair. He lifted his eyes, recognized her look, and immediately glanced at the side table. He got a certain glint in his eye when he saw what was waiting there. "Undress," she ordered. Cullen smiled against her thigh and gave her knee one last squeeze before he stood. He began to unbutton his jacket, shrugging out of it and laying it aside.

"I'm going to take you on your knees," Hawke said casually, watching him.

He regarded her pleasantly, as though they were having a casual conversation about the weather, and unbuttoned his gambeson, pausing only to unwind the sash around his middle. He set both aside.

"You'll come when I decide you should come," she said.

Cullen's look shifted. She enjoyed the heat that gathered in his eyes whenever she enumerated his marching orders. He unfastened his skirts—first the top layer, then the bottom—and set about removing his dress trousers, boots, and socks.

"You will come," she added, lest there be any doubt.

When he was naked, he waited. She stood, reaching out to run her hand up his flank, his arm. She ran her hands over his chest, kissing her way up his neck, and when she reached that place below his jaw and applied a gentle flick of her tongue she felt him swallow, turning his face slightly towards her, and she smiled. She curled her hand behind his neck and pulled him to her lips. He kissed her back at once, his fingers brushing her hips. She did not discipline him—it had been longer than usual and she missed his touch. But she did not linger, either. When his cock began to stiffen against her leg she forced his hands away, grabbed him by the hips, and shoved him onto the bed. She followed lightly on one knee, grabbed him by the hair, and shoved his face down. He was on his hands and knees, as she'd promised. She kept a grip on the back of his neck, pinning him with his face to the side so she could observe his reactions.

"I told you I had something for you," she said quietly, running her hand up the back of his bare thigh, and his lashes fluttered. The 'something' was polished wood, five inches long, easily oiled, and waiting patiently on the side table. It had been easier to acquire than she might have thought, but then, she'd made interesting friends among the nobility. She kept touching him, lovingly, reassuringly, as she dabbed her fingers with oil and slid them between the cleft of his buttocks, rubbing in slow circles, teasing him, testing. She trailed kisses down his hip and thigh, each with a purposeful press of lips and a flick of tongue, and his breathing quickened in anticipation. She had a sympathetic response to his reaction. Soon she was wet, a comfortable warmth pulsing between her legs.

"Beg for what you want," she said sweetly.

"Please," he managed. He knew how to play the game just as well as she had. He never surrendered all at once. He always yielded in phases.

"Please what?"

He licked his lips, his eyes closed. "I need you, messere," he breathed.

"Look at me," she said. "Ask properly."

He looked at her, half-lidded. The heat and desire were there, the same as always, but there was something else in his gaze now, some combination of yearning, trust, and utter submission. "Please make me come, messere," he said.

"I always want you to come for me," she said, placing a gentle kiss on the line of his hip—one of her favorite spots—and she pushed the phallus inside him. He gasped and his lips stayed parted. "Is this what you like?" she asked, knowing full well the answer.

"Yes," he whispered, and she continued to push, and his lower body sank down farther into the sheets. When she began to thrust he let out a low moan. He was putty in her hands. It was invigorating to see him so completely at her mercy, so utterly undone by the singular motion of her hand or finger. His hips were still angled up to give her access and she reached around with her other hand to stroke his cock. His breath came more quickly, his fingers tightening in the sheets.

"Show me what you like," she murmured. The warmth between her legs intensified as she watched him. She stopped moving her hands. Cullen didn't hesitate. He thrust back against her and she braced herself, holding his cock firmly as he rocked his hips. She began to stroke his full length and he gasped and sighed in tune to her rhythm. Soon, the gasps became her name, and she knew he was almost ready. When the time was right, she whispered her final command and felt the quiver of his hips and the pulse of his cock a moment before he came. He collapsed into the sheets, breathing heavily, his body slick with sweat. She withdrew the phallus, enjoying his soft groan in response, and set it aside. She retrieved a handkerchief and wiped her hand, then his cock and thigh.

"Maker's breath," he managed. His voice was shaky.

"That feels good, doesn't it?" She kissed his backside and rubbed the tip of her nose against his hip. "I told you I missed you."

He reached back feebly, between her legs, and she slapped him away. His hand slid down her clothed thigh and into the sheets. "You're beautiful," he mumbled.

"Shut up," she said, pleased, and she shoved his face into the mattress. She draped the bed sheet over his naked body, tucking it in around him, and sat alongside. She leaned over to drop the handkerchief on the side table. She loosened the topmost laces of her bodice, sitting back against the headboard, and he freed an arm and slid it over her waist, rubbing her stomach. She reached over, running her fingers through his hair, and he sighed.

Hawke watched him for a few minutes, observing the rise and fall of his back as his fingers gently stroked her stomach. She thought about the cottage. She thought about Sebastian Vael. She reached back for the chain around her neck and unclasped it. It slid down her chest and fell into her waiting palm. She took his hand where it rested on her stomach. "Cullen," she said.

"Mmm," he replied, lost in the sheets.

She pressed the ring into his palm.

Cullen stilled when his fingers closed around the warm metal. Hawke swallowed. He propped up on one elbow, looking at her, and she knew he must feel the tremble of nerves in her fingertips. She didn't trust her voice when she said, "No matter what happens, you and I…" She had to swallow again, the words were getting stuck. Cullen moved to sit up, the sheet sliding down around his hips. "I will always love you…" She took a short breath and tried again. "I know you had certain hopes about us, about the cottage, and I know—but we can't go back…" She shook her head. That wasn't where she wanted this conversation to go. She tried to refocus. "I have to show you what you mean to me. I want you to know that every morning and every night, wherever I am, whatever has happened, whomever I'm with, I'll always be yours." She licked her lips, an old mannerism that she'd mostly discarded as Viscountess. "That won't change. That will never change. And I… I have to show you somehow, if you would have me… Cullen, if you would do me the honor—"

Cullen kissed her, smearing her lipstick with the crush of his mouth, and her nervousness fell away. She tried to take his hand to help him put on the ring, but he was kissing her too fervently. She laughed quietly and he kissed her into silence. Finally, somehow, they got the ring on. It fit, as she knew it would. She had surreptitiously measured his hand while he slept.

Abruptly, Cullen broke away and crawled across the bed, tangling his legs in the sheets and kicking them aside. He grabbed his uniform. He fumbled for the pocket inside his jacket and tossed it aside, a glint of glass and metal in his palm. He reached for the necklace chain still curled in her hand and she understood. This was what he had kept close to his heart these past years, waiting for the right time, the right moment, the right keepsake to put inside. She drew her hair back and he threaded the locket and fumbled with the clasp before he fastened it around her neck. The locket was elegant and plain. Beyond the glass lid was the purest, whitest sand and a few tiny, delicate, perfect shells. At once, she could see it—Cullen sitting amongst the dunes, sifting the sand through his large hands, searching for the right ones.

"Cullen," she said.

"Say it again," he said, naked on his knees before her, running his hand along the curve of her neck.

"I'll always be yours," she said, and he ripped open the front of the gown. Buttons skittered across the floor. She only had time for a noise of delight before he was kissing her again, his mouth hot and potent as he tore the fabric and lacing off her body. He stripped away her skirts and corset and Hawke kicked off her shoes. Cullen pulled her smalls down her legs and they caught on her ankle. Hawke shook her foot until she dislodged them. He ran his hands up her stockings and pushed her back onto the bed, hooking her legs under his arms. "Marian," he said, and he was inside her.

"Oh," she gasped. He caught her hands in his, their fingers intertwined, the ring glinting, and he thrust steadily and hard until their breathing was heavy and synchronized, their bodies flushed and sweaty and eager for release, the locket bouncing against her chest.

"I love you," he said, his lips finding the sensitive hollow of her throat, dancing over her neck and the chain. "I love you."

"Shut up," she said, between gasps, and he laughed.

"Moan for me," he said.

"Say my name," she countered, trying to make it sound like an order, but it came out like a moan anyway.

"Yes, messere," he said, lowering his mouth to hers, and he whispered all the names he'd etched onto his heart.


End file.
